Far Edge of Anywhere
by AkamaiMom
Summary: Before the Nathan James - before the Red Flu. Before Tom Chandler was a Captain, husband, and father, he was young and adrift, searching for something more in a life that he considered mundane. One night, in a bar with friends, he encounters a beautiful, challenging stranger. Somehow, he knows that his life will never be the same. Tom backstory. Set around 15 years pre-series.
1. Mavericked

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Mavericked**

 _We don't know Tom and Sasha's backstory - but we know it had to have been intense. The Muse wouldn't let me be until I attempted to fill in the details that the series didn't. Two such powerful, passionate, and principled people couldn't have a story that was anything less than they were._

 _This is my own headcanon of how their relationship might have started - and ended._

 _Enjoy. And if you do enjoy, feel free to let me know. I appreciate it!_

-OOOOO-

"Come on, Tommy. For old times."

He groaned, ducking his chin and staring down at the black marble top of the table they'd gathered around. His fingers tightened on the bottle in his hand - he'd barely made a dent in it, having only taken a few sips. Far on the other side of the club, the band had started assailing the bar's crowd with a new song.

"We've struck out, man." Wilson leaned over and nearly yelled into Tom's ear. With the band's enthusiastic bass player, it was really the only way to communicate. "Three for four. Dead in the water. You know how much is riding on this now?"

Lugo whacked Tom's shoulder with the backs of his fingers. "Dance Party, man."

Tom frowned. "I thought it was karaoke."

"The stakes are higher this time around." Martin, their fourth, tossed back another giant swig of his beer. "Since we all crashed and burned last time."

"I know you weren't there, Tom, but our failure was pretty epic."

Straightening, Tom shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans, gesturing towards each of the guys in turn with the bottle he still held. "And this affects me how?"

"Roam with the wild boys, Chandler, and you have to do the wild things." Narrowing his eyes, Martin gave Chandler a speculative once-over. "And now we finally have a ringer on the team. You're both taller and better looking than the rest of us, so the Bettys are going to flock to you."

Tom rolled his eyes, raising his beer for a half-hearted sip. "Sad to say, men, I've hit a dry spell lately. I'm still not cleared for strenuous activity since my PT isn't finished yet."

"Define strenuous." Martin had used his fingers as air quotes, his expression suggestively lewd. Cute.

"From what Lugo here says, you don't ever dance, anyway." Wilson's drink sloshed in its tumbler as he gestured with it in Tom's direction. "You just stand there looking all dreamy while the chicks wriggle around you."

"Wriggle?"

"Wriggle." Swallowing, Wilson turned towards the dance floor, where a dozen or so barely-legals were writhing to the beat. He leered at them for a moment before waggling his eyebrows at Tom. "Like hot, drunk, love-struck puppies."

Tom frowned at his new friend, his brows low. "There is something wrong with you, Wilson."

Wilson's responding grin was astoundingly laconic. "Whatever. You're still our Ben Kenobi, Chandler."

"Your what?"

Wilson laughed, clunking his drink down on the table. Batting his eyes, he curled his hands together under his chin. His voice ascended more than an octave. "Help us, Tom Chandler. You're our only hope."

"So, you're choosing the Leia Offensive strategy?" Lifting his bottle, he glared at the other three guys - the closest things he had to 'friends' in this town. Shaking his head, he sighed. "Unbelievable."

Martin laughed. "So, come on, man. Make your move."

Wilson threw his arm around Tommy's shoulder. "So - okay. Now, it's up to you. She's over there. See? Alone at the bar. Blue jacket, leather boots, sweet tight little jeans. Best-looking woman in here. If you come up empty, we've got to shake our asses up on that stage over there."

"I, for one, can't afford that kind of embarrassment." Lugo shook his head, then dipped his fingers into the bucket full of pretzels on the table in front of them. "My mojo took a serious nose-dive after I had to sing that freaking Britney Spears song last time."

Tom grinned at that image. While Lugo Bermudez was an amazing operator in the field, the man couldn't sing worth a crap. Besides, his tendency to act impetuously rather than carefully had cost him lately, landing him with a demotion of some sort that Tom hadn't had the desire to learn about. Glancing up, Chandler shook his head while raising his bottle in his friend's direction. "Lugo, you didn't have any mojo to begin with."

He shouldn't be here. He had roughly a million other things that he should have been doing during this final free week before his debut at the College. He'd arrived in Newport a few days ago - early enough to get settled into his apartment. He'd acquired groceries, furniture, and a decent TV. He'd unpacked the few things he'd brought with him, browsed through the books the director of the RMSI had given him, and then headed out to reacquaint himself with the city.

He should have studied the books more diligently. Should have reviewed the Russian strategic coursework, or the vocabulary workbooks. Then, maybe he wouldn't have run into Bermudez near the little brewery he'd found just off Coddington Highway, nor stopped to have dinner with his old friend. Dinner had turned into a night at a neighboring bar with Lugo's crew - Jim Wilson and Pete Martin - civilian friends who were Newport natives. One thing had led to another, and now here he stood, in a far trendier bar than he'd ever wanted to grace, trying to get himself out of participating in this ridiculous game.

He was getting too old for this, wasn't he? On the north side of 25 years old and on track to be a Captain by 40 - this kind of thing should be anathema to him. And really, he should be immune to peer pressure.

But what was it that they said about brothers in arms? You didn't leave a man behind. Lugo was having a good time - and no matter how little Tom wanted to be there, he didn't want to ruin his friend's night.

Damn.

"So, what are the rules again?"

Sensing victory, Martin counted off the steps on his fingers. "Approach, woo, get a number."

"Woo?"

"You know, charm - beguile."

Wilson winked lasciviously. "Seduce."

"Do what you have to do to accomplish the mission, Tom." Lugo clapped a hand on Chandler's back, shoving him unceremoniously towards the girl at the end of the bar. "Don't make us dance on the stage."

Sighing again, Tom took another swig from his beer before depositing it on the table. "Wish me luck." Taking a few steps backwards, he ignored his friends' shouts of encouragement as he rounded the stage side of the establishment. Coming up on the bar from the other side gave him a better look at her. Dark hair, fair skin. She was reading something, a glass of what Tom suspected to be diet cola near a half-finished plate of hot wings. She had a piece of celery in one hand, and was turning pages with the other. The stools on either side of her were empty.

Gritting his teeth, Tom took a few steps towards her, making the mistake of glancing to his left at the crew he'd left behind. They were watching him with rapt attention, their expressions a little too hopeful.

Damn it. He was getting too old for this kind of idiocy.

He groaned, then strode directly towards the girl, sliding onto the stool on her right.

She paid him absolutely no attention. She didn't even lower her celery. Tom leaned towards her, crowding her arm with his elbow, and she merely turned the page of the paperback she was reading.

He cleared his throat.

She took a bite.

He bumped her elbow with his own.

She turned slightly to avoid touching him again.

Tom looked up at the long rows of bottles displayed at the back of the bar area. Typical - mirrored walls, amber lighting, glass shelves - like most other bars he'd been to since he'd gotten old enough to drink. The bartender was cleaning glasses, wiping them dry with a towel. The look he shot Tom radiated understanding and sympathy. Obviously, many others had failed with this one.

"Excuse me." He'd turned sideways on the stool, leaning in towards his mark. When she didn't acknowledge him, he tried again, more loudly. "Excuse me."

Finally, she'd looked over at him, and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He'd been expecting an attractive woman, but she was _more_. Her features were perfect - unbelievably so - but Tom was more intrigued by what he could sense that she _was_. Confident. Astute. Deliberate. Wary. Beneath the dark feather of her eyelashes, her clear blue eyes scoped him over with a freakish sort of intelligence. It was disconcerting, in a way, to be studied so intently by someone, yet to have no idea whatsoever what she was seeing.

Whatever impressions she'd gained remained hidden behind a beautiful, yet implacable mask. "Yes?"

It was quieter on this side of the bar. Enough so that he didn't need to yell. "I need to apologize for my friends over there."

She knew exactly to whom he was referring. She threw a quick look at them over her left shoulder before returning her attention to Tom on her right. "I guess someone has to."

"They're good guys, but they're idiots."

Her slow smile softened her features. She was amused - whether that was _by_ him or _with_ him was uncertain. "Aren't those two things mutually exclusive?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Tom shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Truth is, they're playing a game."

"A game."

"Yes."

"What's the point of it?"

"It's called ' Mavericking'." Tom explained. "Like from 'Top Gun'. They choose a girl, and they all take turns trying to get her number. If they all strike out, then they have to perform some embarrassing stunt."

"'Top Gun', huh?" Her lips twitched. "You're not going to sing to me, are you?"

"Would it help?"

"Ummmm - " She pretended to think, tapping the celery against her bottom lip before shaking her head with a slow, sardonic smile. "Probably not."

"Good." Tom watched as she took a bite of the celery stick. "I can't sing worth a damn."

"Neither could Tom Cruise."

"True." Shrugging a little, he tapped his fingertips on the bar counter. "But he still got the girl."

"From what I remember, that was only because he'd played chicken with a Mig-28." She cocked her head at him. "Kelly McGillis was jonesing to hear about that. I think that Tom Cruise was just the cherry on top."

"The cherry?"

Her grin was broad and bold. "So to speak. But all I'm saying is that Maverick wouldn't have gotten anywhere if it weren't for the plane."

"Ah. The Mig-28." He watched as she placed her celery back onto the plate alongside the remainder of her wings. "Funny thing is, that plane doesn't actually exist."

"Really?" Her perfectly arched brows rose. "I thought for sure that movie was completely accurate in every way."

She was mocking him. Tom rubbed at the hint of stubble roughening his cheeks and chin. "I'm sorry to burst your bubble."

"Oh, believe me. There was no bubble." She ran a finger along the rim of her glass, tilting her head to one side. Her hair flowed like a liquid curtain over her shoulder. "I've never really liked that movie."

It was his turn to tease. "Even with the famous volleyball scene? I thought that part had all the girls drooling."

"I've seen my share of tight abs and bulging pecs." Lifting her glass, she elevated a single brow at the same time. "I've found that the packaging is rarely indicative of what's inside the box."

Tom waited for her to swallow and set the glass back down before responding. "So, you're picky."

"Discriminating." She corrected him, absently twisting a strand of hair around a finger. "I'm more into the brain than the brawn."

He scowled towards the object she'd been studying when he'd approached her. "And yet, you're reading 'Pride and Prejudice'."

"What's wrong with 'Pride and Prejudice'?" Passing a glance towards the book still sitting open on the bar, she narrowed her eye at Tom. "It's a classic."

"Nothing's wrong with 'Pride and Prejudice'. It's just ironic that you're waxing philosophical about brawn versus brain, and Mr. Darcy is a the brawniest of them all. In my experience, women who love 'Pride and Prejudice' do so because they've got the hots for Mr. Darcy."

"He's a romantic legend."

She'd scooted forward on her stool in her earnestness, close enough to Tom that her knee grazed his own. Tom couldn't deny that he was intrigued by this woman. He'd been expecting your basic barfly; pretty, entertaining, yet vapid. Instead, he'd found someone challenging and fascinating. And her touch - so innocent against his leg - sent a jolt of energy through his core.

Tom rested his elbow on the bar, shaking his head at her. "He's brawny."

"How is Mr. Darcy brawny? He's a man unlike any other in literature. He's considerate, he's willing to take responsibility for his actions, and he's thoughtful. His entire goal seems to be to take care of his sister, friends, and eventually, Elizabeth."

"He's powerful. He's rich. He forces others to accept his will. He lies to his friend about Jane being in London because he thinks that he knows better than Bingley. He manipulates everyone."

She made a little sound - half disgust, half exasperation. "He was just trying to take care of his friend."

Tom frowned with derision. "He was bossy and had an unfair prejudice against the Bennet sisters."

"Which he apologized for and, and about which he made amends."

"Amends that he wouldn't have had to make if he hadn't been such an arrogant blowhard in the first place."

"Arrogant - " She straightened, using her heels on the rung of the stool to push her body even closer to him, the heat of her knee rasping along his inner thigh. "Mr. Darcy wasn't arrogant. He was reticent, maybe - "

"He was arrogant." Tom shrugged, thrumming his splayed fingers against the wood of the bar. "I, for one, would never presume to sabotage my friend when he clearly loves someone."

"What - one of those friends?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, her hair swinging as she leveled a glare at his buddies over her shoulder. "You can't be serious. They're nothing like Bingley."

"You're right." He grinned. "Just like I'm not really like them."

That stopped her. She sat straight up on her stool, peering at him with a contemplative little gleam in her incredible eyes. "No. You're really not."

It was his turn to study her. Open, blatant, appraising. His eyes swept over her, capturing the dark luxury of her hair, the perfect ivory of her cheek, the expressive curve of her mouth. He could see the pulse beating in the elegant line of her throat, her fine nostrils flaring with the heat of the argument.

Damn, she was beautiful. Unbelievably so, not to mention more interesting than anyone or anything he'd encountered in ages. He'd been bored - so incomprehensibly bored - first confined due to his injury and then on leave during his recovery. He'd been chagrined to admit to being excited by the idea of physical therapy. At least it had given him something to do.

And then the assignment at the War College had given him a mission again, and he'd been looking forward to the challenge of teaching. He'd been reaching, lately. Far removed from friends whose progress amidst ranks had stalled, and yet stagnant himself with his inability to do anything while his leg healed. Meeting up with Lugo had been a bleak reminder of what happened to officers who allowed themselves to simply drift. Somehow, during his tours in the Gulf and his assignments in and around Russia, things had changed for him.

He'd changed. Matured? Maybe.

"So? What do you say?" He balanced his weight on the elbow he'd perched on the bar, bending in towards her. "Are you going to help me out?"

Something shifted in her eyes, the azure gaze morphing from annoyance to something altogether different. Amusement, perhaps. Curiosity, for certain. She broke eye contact first, turning her attention downward, towards where their legs were still touching, her hair flowing in a sleek tumble over her shoulder and obscuring one side of her face. Hesitantly, she reached over and touched his hand, tracing down the veins on the back, roughing the fine hairs on his knuckles, rasping around the texture of his fingertips where they draped over the edge of the bar. The touch was barely a whisper, but was enough to send Tom reeling again, fighting for control against a force that he'd never encountered.

She peeked up at him from under the silken fall of her hair. With other women, that look would have been considered flirtatious. With this one - it was a challenge. "So, what would it take?"

"A phone number."

"Does it have to be my real number?"

He wouldn't beg for it. For all of his bravado, he was too proud for that. "No. It's a game. And since they'll never call it, they'll never know."

"Don't you want my name?"

"That's up to you." He pressed his lips together to keep from asking anyway.

"So, a fake name and a fake number for a fake pick-up due to a real game." Her fingers rested on his briefly before she turned, searching on the bar for a napkin. "Do you have a pen?"

Tom quickly caught the eye of the bartender, who had obviously been paying attention. Almost immediately, a cheap ballpoint skidded down the bar towards them.

She caught it deftly, removing the lid and positioning the napkin. Her handwriting suited her - bold and even, lacking girly swirls, but unmistakeable feminine. She folded up the napkin and turned back towards him before sliding off her stool. Her lips curved in a sassy smile. "Well, Mr. Fake. It's been interesting."

Tom stood. "That, it has."

She held up the napkin, her eyes sparkling with challenge. "Are you going to call it?"

One brow rose in blatant skepticism. "Is it real?"

"You'll have to try it to find out." Without breaking eye contact, she snagged a belt loop of his jeans with a finger, tugging at him gently. Lifting a brow, she tucked the napkin into the front pocket of his Levis, her fingers lingering on the denim edge. "There you go. You have successfully avoided Mavericking."

Tom sighed, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "I appreciate that, ma'am."

She didn't answer him, merely capturing her top lip between her teeth. Instinctively, Tom knew that she was too frank for the games that other girls played - she wasn't being coy, her uncertainty was genuine. Without giving her the chance to waver, he stepped away from her first, backing up a little before finally pivoting and making his way back the way he'd come towards the table near the entrance where his friends waited.

They'd ordered another round. Tom's first bottle still sat, unfinished, on the table amidst the empties. Next to it was a fresh one, still cold. He grabbed it and raised it to his lips.

"So?" Lugo spoke first, his face flushed with alcohol and excitement. "Did you get it?"

Swallowing, Chandler couldn't keep himself from looking back towards the bar, only to find that she'd gone. The bartender had already cleared away her glass and half-finished plate of wings. Only the ballpoint pen remained. He hid his disappointment by making a show of pulling the napkin out of his pocket. "Read it and weep, men."

Bolstered by beer, Lugo raised both hands in the air and whooped, turning towards the other two as he yelled, "Jester's dead!"

Wilson and Martin high-fived Lugo and each other, raising their beer bottles in a somewhat woozy salute to Tom. Their hollering was nearly lost in the clamor of the band and of the other patrons around them. For that small favor, Tom felt intensely grateful. Returning the napkin to his pocket, he dropped out of the celebration, stepping a few feet back and out of their way, watching from the sidelines rather than participating in their exultation.

Maybe he'd changed in his time since being a student at the College. Maybe seeing action, experiencing defeat, losing friends - maybe that had rendered this kind of ridiculous enterprise pointless to him. Maybe he was still out of sorts since his injury, and the resultant feelings of uselessness and weakness. Maybe he was just beyond this and ready for something more - meaningful.

Whatever had happened, he'd gained something new. Some sort of perspective that was driving him away from the ridiculous and towards the substantial. From inanity to relevance.

She'd challenged him, and he'd found it far more intoxicating than the alcohol flowing freely around him. And far, far more desirable.

Leaning against a nearby post, Tom scanned the crowd again, the bottle in his hand feeling like an anchor. It was hot, and crowded inside the bar, too many people moving in too many directions. He'd become accustomed to order in the past few years, he realized. Order and a sense of purpose. This kind of chaotic insanity was numbing and stupid. The door opened behind him, and a sudden rush of cool air enveloped him. It felt cleansing, and real, and he yearned almost desperately to be somewhere - _anywhere_ \- other than here.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned towards the sensation. Jarred from his thoughts, it took a split-second to focus on the face peering up at him. On the cerulean eyes and dark fringe of lashes. On the odd uncertainty in her expression.

 _Her_.

She hadn't left. Or she'd come back - it didn't matter. Whatever had made her return had also made her antsy. Her breathing was rapid, and a pinkness had worked its way up the fair skin of her throat to color her cheeks.

"I forgot something." She'd leaned in to him on tiptoe, speaking directly into his ear.

"What did you forget?" Tom frowned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large crowd heading towards the door, and he wrapped his arm around her to get her out of the way. In the tumult, she was pushed against him, her body flush against his, her hands coming up to brace herself against his chest. The impact was stunning - a jolting assault on his senses. Her feel, her smell, the energy in her lithe body pulsing against his was overwhelming. He shivered at her touch, ducking his chin - ashamed at the surge of need.

She was studying him - her gaze intense. She'd felt his response, insinuating herself even closer to him, relishing the way his body reacted to her. She smiled a little, the curve of her mouth teasing at a hint of a dimple in the smooth perfection of her cheek.

Her fingers traced along the muscles in his chest, up the column of his throat, feeling the softness of the skin beneath his ear. She narrowed her eyes, giving her head a little shake as she asked, "Who the hell _are_ you?"

But before he could answer, she'd splayed her palm against his cheek and had risen up further, urging his face downwards towards hers. Her thumb traced the line at the corner of his lips, teasing at the stubble on his cheek. He watched her - breathless - as she closed the distance between them and pressed her mouth to his.

 _Damn_.

His eyes closed even as she urged his lips to part. He pulled her closer as she tested and tasted and explored him. Heat spread up his core, her body felt right beneath his hands, strong and vital. She tasted like exotic cities and the sea herself - wild and reckless and untamed. Like midnight in the sands of the Middle East, or like the calm before the storm. She was all of that and more - _she was everything -_ as she drew more from him than he'd known he could give.

Hot, deep, thorough. By the time she broke the kiss, he'd gathered her up so tightly against himself that her toes barely skimmed the floor, her arms were locked around his neck, and the fingers of one hand had threaded themselves through the short coarseness of his hair. They were both breathing unevenly in shallow bursts, clutching at each other as they struggled for control. He wanted to kiss her again, angling downward, but she met him with a little whimper that he couldn't quite interpret, and he pressed his forehead against hers, instead. Her fingers played with the hair at his nape, his collar, and the back of his neck, and he could feel her relaxing against him. He breathed deeply - stymied by the staleness of the bar and the stink of its patrons - forcing his own body back under control, untangling his hand from the knot he'd clutched in the back of her shirt. He smoothed the fabric down, his hand lingering in the supple curve of her waist and hip.

What he wouldn't give to be somewhere else with this fascinating woman at this exact moment. Anywhere else but here.

Damn.

He couldn't let her go. He didn't have the strength. She fit so perfectly against him that he simply held her there for a long moment, burying his face in the elegant curve of her throat, feeling their heartbeats as they sought a symbiotic beat.

He was lost and found, dead and risen, numb and feeling - all at once.

In a gaudy club in Newport - the very last place on Earth that he figured he'd find meaning.

Against him, she stirred, sliding her arms from around his neck and lowering herself to the floor. Her fingertips trailed along his temple, his cheek bone, his jaw, as she pulled away. Her eyes were bright in the dimness of the club, her lips slightly swollen.

"It's real."

"What?" He wasn't quite back to normal yet. "What's real?"

"The number." Her hand tightened on his bicep. "You still have it, right? You didn't give it to these goons."

He couldn't help but smile at that. "No. It's still in my pocket."

"So, tomorrow." She shook her hair back over her shoulder, tilting herself close enough to make herself heard, but not close enough to lose control again. "Tomorrow, you call it."

"Okay."

"You call it, and I'll answer."

Nodding, he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth, even if he was pretty sure that he looked like a virgin freshman at his first college party. "And what should I call you?"

She fought it - he could tell. Somehow, he knew that she was struggling for self-control as much as was he. But she lost the battle, coming in close to tease at his mouth again - hard and then gentle, deep and then sweet. Stepping away, she pressed her lips together with a little sigh, touching her fingertips to her mouth as if to remember the sensation. Finally, she answered. "Sasha. My name is Sasha."

And before he could reply, she'd fled, whirling away from him, from his body, from his heat, weaving her way expertly through the crowds near the door and disappearing into the night.

 _To be continued. . ._


	2. Five Days

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Five Days**

"You called."

"You told me to."

"Are you always that obedient?"

"Not exactly."

It was breezy on the pier, and still bright, even through the sun had begun its descent. The last of the season's tourists meandered along the picturesque walkway, stragglers trying to squeeze out a few more moments of summer.

Sasha had suggested the spot - an area of Newport popular with visitors and residents alike. For some reason, it had always reminded Tom of the village from Pete's Dragon - his little sister's favorite movie from when they'd been kids. Near the water, a narrow road wound around the inlet, hemmed on either side by waist-high wooden pylons threaded through with heavy rope. The ocean boasted an eclectic assortment of sailboats and fishing vessels, moored to either simple piers that extended out from the shore, or weather-worn floating docks anchored individually in the bed of the rocky bay. On the other side of the road, a quaint mixture of buildings ranging from Cape Cod elegance to Shantytown Chic marched haphazardly up and down the way. The fishery feel of the place was merely ambiance - most of the restaurants were four-star rated, and the shops and galleries equally pricey.

Tom had waited, leaning back against the railing of the pier, his arms folded across his chest. She'd been late. Not that he minded - he'd spent the time watching the boats bobbing around the harbor. His father had taught him how to sail when he'd been eleven or twelve, and he'd always loved it. Maybe that's why the Navy had appealed to him more than other branches of the service. There was something both calming and exciting about the sea. You never knew what to expect from her.

Kind of like Sasha, herself. He'd thought about little else since she'd disappeared from the bar. Lugo, Martin, and Wilson had watched the whole episode eagerly, and figured that the triumph of the kiss had merited another round of drinks - and then another on top of that. Tom had pretended to celebrate with the rest of them until he'd lost the ability to fake it any more. Pouring the rest of his friends into a cab, he'd hit the streets and wandered around until dawn.

When he'd finally slept, he hadn't dreamed at all, and had woken up still feeling groggy and out of sorts. He'd dressed quickly, pulling on a clean shirt with the denim he'd worn the night before. Chiding himself for not having done any of the prep work for his classes at the College, he spent a few hours reviewing the course outlines and brushing up on his language skills before leaving his apartment in search of lunch. The taco truck at the end of his street had sufficed, but when he'd reached into his pocket for some cash, the napkin he'd shoved there had fallen to the ground.

He'd actually considered not picking it up. Calling her, seeing her again - it would be a complication that he wasn't sure he needed in his life at the moment. She was one of those force of nature events that could blow a man off course before he'd even noticed the clouds.

Yet here he was, waiting for her. He'd called, and she'd answered, and he'd made his way to this ridiculously kitschy part of the city and perched himself against this rail waiting on - what? A one-night stand? A date? A scathing put-down? Shaking his head, he'd glared down at his boots until a flash of color had drawn his attention. Of course it had been her. Tall and lithe - she moved with a grace that seemed equal parts athleticism and self-confidence. He'd been expecting her to come down the street from the public parking lots as he had, but instead she'd hurried down the steps of an art gallery before crossing the street and half-jogging towards him.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I had a thing." She gestured back over her shoulder in the direction of the gallery before facing him fully. "Back there. Something. An appointment."

"Is that where you work?"

"No." She shook her head, and a gust of wind sent her hair whipping around her face and shoulders. Turning into the wind, she let the breeze blow her hair away from her face before raising her hands to try to tame the mess. "Not really. I just help out there."

"It's a nice place to help out."

"It is." After a few deft twists, she'd gathered her unruly hair over her shoulder. Squinting up at him, she asked, "Do you have a pen?"

Tom grinned. He couldn't help it. Reaching into the front pocket of his jacket, he withdrew one he'd happened to discover there on his walk over from the parking lot. Holding it out to her, he quirked a brow upwards. "Is this part of the deal? I need to provide you with writing implements every time we see each other?"

"How often do you envision us seeing each other?" She had to move closer to him to reach the ballpoint. Once she'd grasped it, she stuck it between her teeth before winding the heavy mass of her hair into a knot at her nape. She took the pen and shoved it through the knot, giving the finished product a little jerk to make sure it would hold. "Because I'm really not into that kind of thing right now."

"I'm not in the market, either."

Her tone was light, yet still an issued challenge. "Then why did you call me?"

"Why did you give me your number?"

"Why did you ask me for it?"

Tom rolled his eyes heavenward before heaving a sigh. "I explained that to you last night. I was playing that stupid game."

"Yes. But you could have just taken my number and then conveniently misplaced it." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't have to call it."

"Okay." Tom tried to read the careful expression on her face, but failed. She was as enigmatic as she was bold. But he hadn't studied strategy in vain, and his response was just as pointed. "Then, why did you kiss me?"

Her eyes studied him for a few beats before she turned away, looking out towards the ocean that lapped gently at the rocky shoreline. She squinted for a few moments westward, where the sky had started to glow reddish-pink. Tom couldn't tell if the flush on her face was embarrassment, or just a reflection of the sunset.

"I don't know." She chewed a little at her bottom lip, her nose wrinkling a little at the tip when she smiled up at him. "I just had to, you know?"

He did, oddly enough. His response to her was a groan of sorts - little more than a low rumble in his chest that she seemed to understand.

By some unspoken communication, they both started walking at the same time, heading away from the art gallery and down what could be loosely termed a boardwalk. For the most part, the crowds had dispersed into the restaurants and bars, leaving the walkways open. Tom angled himself towards the outside of the sidewalk, falling into step easily beside Sasha, his pace measured carefully to hers. She'd dressed casually for the evening, jeans and a loose-fitting cabled sweater made out of some nubby, thick sort of fiber that made him want to touch it. Or maybe he just wanted to touch her.

And there he went, thinking about that damned kiss again.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and tried to figure out what color the sweater was in an attempt to not think about kissing her. Purple - yet _not_ purple. It was a lighter shade that his mother and sister would have called something high-faluting like 'eggplant' or 'plum'. Mauve? No - that was more pink than purple, wasn't it? Trying to change the direction of his train of thought wasn't helping. No matter what the stupid color was, he still wanted to feel it against his skin.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way."

Startled out of his reverie, Tom' brows lowered as he forced himself to remember what she'd said. "Sorry about what?"

"The kissing thing." Her pace slowed, and then she came to a stop in front of a chocolatier's storefront. Turning to face the display, Sasha caught his eye in the reflection of the window briefly before continuing. "I don't know where that came from, but I shouldn't have done it."

"It's all right. I didn't mind."

Her teeth flashed in a fleeting smile. "Nevertheless. It was a bad idea."

"Maybe." Tom took the opportunity to appreciate the graceful curve of her shoulder and throat, displayed so neatly by the chignon she'd created with the pen. Her purple - Periwinkle? Lavender? - sweater had a wide neckline that draped just exactly in the right way to expose the milky skin of her shoulders and collarbones. She had a tiny birthmark just below the nape of her neck, little more than a shadow on otherwise perfection, but it sent his imagination reeling. He had to force himself back to the present again. "Maybe not."

She looked over the confections in the display before nodding. "True. But like I said, I'm really not looking to start anything with anyone right now."

"And like I said, I'm not either."

"Then why are we here?"

"I asked you first."

Capturing his gaze in the reflection of the window, she grinned. "This is a singularly inane conversation."

Tom actually laughed at that. "I agree with you there."

Taking a few shuffled steps, he started out again, and she immediately followed - walking close enough that her arm periodically brushed against his. For several long moments, they simply walked, comfortable in silence.

They'd paused at an intersection before Sasha spoke again. "So, did you actually read it?"

It took Tom a moment to realize what she was talking about. "'Pride and Prejudice'?"

"Yes." She noticed that the light had changed before he did, and saved her next question until they were on the other side of the crosswalk. "Did you read it, or did you watch the miniseries?"

"Ah. Colin Firth." Tom raised an eyebrow. "My little sister has a serious thing for that guy. I think she's watched that show at least a dozen times. We had to buy it twice on VHS."

"So you watched it, rather than read it."

"Nope." He let out a wry laugh. "I read it. It was on a list for my high school AP English class. We had to read a certain number of the books during the school year and then submit essays about them. I sailed through 'Of Mice and Men', 'Catcher in the Rye', 'To Kill a Mockingbird', and some others. Read some Shakespeare, a whole mess of verse by English and British poets, some essays and other stuff by Whitman and Thoreau. At the end of the year, though, I came up short one book. I had to choose between 'The Sound and the Fury', 'Moby Dick', and your darling Mr. Darcy."

"I tried to read 'Moby Dick' once." She reached up and adjusted her make-shift bun. "I never got much past the 'Ishmael' part."

"And 'The Sound and the Fury' is completely incomprehensible. It's like trying to read the mind of a rabid goat with ADD."

Her laughter was throaty and real. "I hated that book."

"It's terrible. So, I read all about Lizzie and Darcy and Bingley and Jane, instead." He leaned into her just a bit, nudging her to see if she'd look at him again. She did. "I'm not embarrassed to say that I enjoyed it. The summer after graduation, I got my wisdom teeth taken out. While I waited for my face to no longer resemble a chipmunk, I read 'Sense and Sensibility' and 'Persuasion'."

"I'm a huge fan of 'Emma'."

"I didn't get to that one." He smiled. "I saw the movie, though."

"I never did. Is it good?"

They split, stepping on either side of a placard that a coffee shop had left out on the sidewalk. Once around it, they gravitated back together, bumping elbows and hips.

Tom didn't mind. "It's good. It's no 'Top Gun', but it'll do for a date movie."

"What is it about guys and 'Top Gun'?"

"It's the planes." He stopped mid-stride, catching her eye. He gestured with his open palm – imitating the flight deck of the ship. "In the beginning, on the carrier. All of the F-14 Tomcats are getting set to take off. You crank up the surround-sound and the subwoofers until your windows are shaking - with the music and the bass and the sound of the jet engines firing up - well, hell. There's nothing else like it. I don't even watch the whole movie. You just fast-forward through all the talking and crap to watch the planes fly."

"Even the - " her nose wrinkled again as she squinted into the dark, trying to find the right words. " Even the naughty bits?"

"The bedroom scene?" Tom snorted. "Was that the most uncomfortable sex scene in movie history or what? She's only a few years older than he is, but she just seemed ancient compared to him, didn't she? Like the '80s version of Mrs. Robinson."

"I told you last night that I wasn't a fan of 'Top Gun'." Sasha's brows rose, and she lifted a hand to thunk a little against his arm. "But 'The Graduate'. Now that was a great flick."

"Agreed."

"Fantastic music."

"Well, it was Simon and Garfunkel." He shrugged. "Of course it was good."

"One word!" She raised a brow at him, challenging him with a teasing grin.

"Plastics!" He grinned back. Her hand brushed against his, lingering a little too long to have been accidental. Tom didn't think twice. All it took was a twist of his arm, and he'd captured her hand.

Warm and strong. She met his touch fully, leaning in towards him. He was somewhat surprised that her palm and fingers were roughened by callouses, but even more shocked that she threaded those fingers around his and soothed her thumb along the knuckle of his index finger in a gesture of such sweet intimacy that he stopped abruptly.

"So, let's be honest."

Sasha paused beside him, angling her body so that she could look up at him and still keep their hands linked.

"Last night was pretty damned awesome."

"Which part?"

"All of it."

She tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. "It's been a very long time since anybody has - well, since I've been interested in anyone."

"For me, too."

She raised her free hand and smoothed the front of his shirt. "But here's the thing. We're not going to happen. I've got too many things on my plate right now, and my life is just - well, it's hectic to say the least. I'm six months away from finishing something that I've been working on for years, and I'm not going to give that up for - whatever this is."

Shaking his head a little, Tom shifted his attention from her face to the darkening sky. "That's a whole lot of stuff to announce when you haven't even asked me my name."

"Maybe that's the whole point."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She smiled. "When I was a kid, we lived all over the place. My parents' business took them all over the world, and since I'm an only child, they dragged me along. I got to see things that other kids might not even learn about in school; Iguazu Falls, Gilgal Refa' im in Israel, Pura Gunung Kawi in Bali, Skara Brae. It was great - don't get me wrong. It's a hell of a way to grow up. But I was a kid, and all I wanted what every other kid on Earth wants."

"What's that?" Tom couldn't quite help the amused sarcasm in his tone. "A pony?"

"Close." She actually chuckled at that. "I wanted a puppy."

"It's tough to travel with a dog."

"Right. That's what my parents kept telling me. So, I couldn't have one." Letting go of his hand, she moved a little way down the sidewalk, stopping next to one of the decoratively quaint gaslights. "Anyway, so we were in Taiwan for a conference, or something - I don't know, it's kind of a blur. I was around nine, and my nanny - "

"You had a nanny?"

"Well - yeah."

Tom grunted. "I've never known anyone who had a nanny before."

"My parents were loaded."

"Obviously."

She sent him a chiding sort of glare. "Are you going to let me tell my story?"

"I don't know." Tom shrugged. "Who else am I going to have to keep track of? Your chauffeur or your body guard?"

"They were the same person."

"Of course they were." Snorting, he threw his hands out in playful surrender. "Because why wouldn't they be?"

"It's just wasteful to pay two separate people to perform basically the same function."

"Naturally. Frugality is a good thing." Tom inclined his head in a mocking little bow. "Please continue, my lady."

Letting out an exasperated little sigh, she went on. "So, my nanny and I went across the street from the hotel to this park. It was mid-morning, and there weren't a ton of people around, so I was surprised when this little dog comes running over to us from behind some bushes."

"What color was it?"

She frowned at him. "What does that matter?"

Stepping closer, he leaned a shoulder on the gaslight pole, resting his weight against it. "I'm just trying to get the full effect, here."

"Black." When she tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes caught at the streetlight, making them seem deeper than the sea. "He was black. With a brown nose and markings over its eyes. It was a cute little thing, silky longish hair, and these tufted ears that stood up."

"Beautiful." Although Tom couldn't tell if he was talking about the dog in the story or the woman telling it.

"He was." Sasha reached up and patted his cheek a little, smiling with a mocking sort of sweetness. "Now shut up so that I can get to my point."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay. So, I picked up this dog, and we went all around the park trying to find its owners. We must have walked a mile or so asking everyone we saw if the dog belonged to them."

"This was in Taiwan?"

"I already told you that."

"So, at the ripe old age of nine, you already spoke - "

"Chinese. Mandarin - because that's what most people speak in Taiwan. There are several other dialects, but Mandarin is the lingua franca."

"Understood." He nodded. "Go on."

"Long story short - nobody claimed the dog." She sighed, remembering. "So, we took him back to the hotel, and I plunked him in the bathtub and cleaned him up so that he was just the cutest thing ever. I might have even spritzed him with my mom's perfume. By the time they got back from the Embassy that night, I was in love with that dog."

She faltered, her voice breaking just a bit. Tom merely waited, watching her work her way through the memory.

"My nanny and I spent the entire rest of the day trying to find him the perfect name. I'd finally decided on 'Gilbert'."

"Let me guess - as in Blythe?"

"You've read 'Anne of Green Gables', too?"

"I can't claim that one. My little sister's first crush was Gilbert Blythe." Tom ran a hand through his hair. It was too long and starting to curl - he'd have to have it cut before next week. "I'm pretty sure she killed just as many VHS sets of that show as she did 'Pride and Prejudice'."

"I'd probably like your little sister."

"I'm pretty sure she'd like you, too."

"Really?" She crossed her arms in front of her, pulling the sleeves of the sweater over her hands. It had turned a little chilly. "Anyway, when my mom and dad got home, they saw that dog and immediately called the hotel manager up to our rooms. He was charged with finding the dog's actual owners, and my mother expressly forbid me to use the name I'd given him."

She didn't need a response, so Tom didn't give her one. She'd stepped closer to him, though, close enough that, even through the dark, he could see the sadness in her eyes.

"It only took about an hour to find her. It was another resident of the hotel, actually. She came up and took him, and she was thrilled to have him back. But I was - " She faltered, lifting her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

"You were sad."

"Later, my mother explained it to me." Sasha looked directly at him, then, those clear blue eyes making a low, leisurely examination of him. "If you name something, you make it part of you. And then, giving it up is even harder."

The door opened on a nearby restaurant, and a couple emerged, bathed in a shaft of light from the building's interior. They were practically wrapped around each other, touching, feeling, kissing wherever they could reach. As they made their way down the street, they didn't even notice Sasha watching their progress. And Sasha didn't notice Tom watching her. Didn't know he'd seen her smile sadly into the darkness as they'd disappeared from view. She didn't know he'd seen the wistful way she'd smiled, nor how that smile hadn't quite reached her eyes.

Once they'd gone, she hazarded a look up at him. "So, you see, I can't name you."

When he spoke, even he was surprised by the smooth, soothing tone of his voice. "I didn't ask you to. I've already got a name."

"I know - but this is my problem, not yours." She threw him a furtive look before turning downward to focus on her feet. "I'm in Newport on business - kind of. And I'm almost done with the training aspect of it. It's been a long time coming, and I can't take any chances with the opportunities that have been extended to me."

"I'm only in town for six months. I'm on staff at the - "

"No particulars." She squeezed her eyes shut, raising a hand to stop him from saying any more. "I can't get attached if I don't know you, right?"

Chandler craned his head back to shoot a withering look at the heavens. Why here? Why now? He wasn't in a position to be starting anything either - not when he'd be sent to the sea for months on end as soon as his assignment at the college was up. He didn't need the complication of this - of her - nor of the possibilities that she presented.

"So, that's why you wanted to see me." Tom measured his words carefully, pushing himself away from the pole and circling her still form. "You wanted to tell me that you _couldn't_ see me?"

"It's not that I don't want to." Her voice was soft in the night. "I've never, ever done what I did last night. You're - well - you're the kind of guy who could really screw me up. You could make me lose sight of my goals."

"And you're the kind of girl that could put mine in focus." He hadn't realized that he'd been thinking it until he said it. Until he put words to the fascination he'd felt for the woman standing in front of him. Sasha was right - it wasn't the right time for either of them. Unfortunately, Tom was finding it difficult to care.

"I can't be anything for you."

"I know."

"Just like you can't be - "

She was within reach - all it took was a shift of position, and he'd threaded an arm around her, tugging gently, yet inexorably, until she shared his space. Tom was struck again by how vital Sasha was - by how even through the knit of her sweater he could feel energy pulsing through her form. He pressed her closer, gratified when her hands rose to rest against his chest, when she relaxed a little against him.

"I can't be what, Sasha?"

She shook her head, staring at the buttons on his shirt rather than at his face. With a little sigh, she leaned her forehead against his chest, one hand lifting to curve itself around his neck, the other drifting downward to rest on his hip. Her breath was warm through the fabric of his shirt, her fingers gentle on his skin.

Tom rested his chin against the cool silk of her hair, wrapping his other arm around her, as well. "What can't I be?"

"This is stupid." Her words were muffled against his body. She sighed. "So damned stupid."

He grinned into the darkness. "You're probably right on that point."

"I shouldn't do this."

"Then tell me to let go."

"It's just that you're kind of cute." She nuzzled closer. "And you're warm."

"Then take me home." Tom smiled against her hair, amazed again at how right she felt against him. "I'm already house trained."

The door of the restaurant opened again, and two different couples emerged. Tom watched as they left - in different directions. One couple walked quickly towards the parking lot, not touching, while the other sauntered towards the pier, hand - in - hand. The couple holding hands were laughing, leaning towards each other every once in a while to say something.

Once they'd gone, the only sound from the deserted street was the ever-present lull of waves lapping against the rocky shore.

"I have five days." She spoke against his chest, her body pressed tight to his. Pulling back a little, Sasha sought his gaze through the darkness. "Five days until I have to go back to my real life."

"What are you suggesting?"

"For five days, let's be the people that we are right here and right now. No questions, no demands, no commitments. For five days, we don't say anything or do anything that will make it harder to walk away when the time comes."

Five days. Tom looked down at her upturned face, at the strand of hair that kept escaping the bun she'd fastened with his pen. At those keen, impertinent eyes so blue that they seemed fathomless. In the light of the lamp, her skin gleamed ivory. And that mouth intrigued him- fuller on the bottom than on the top, her lips parted slightly with a half-smile that hinted at a dare.

She was younger than he'd originally thought. For all of her experience, she was still nervous. This, then was foreign to her - as unfamiliar to her as it was to him. Tom Chandler had always lived his life in the open. Even when he'd been young and stupid in high school and college, he'd done it for all to see. Never had he existed in obscurity, cloaking himself in deliberate anonymity.

He'd always worn his uniform with pride. His commission with honor. His name with purpose.

"Five days." Lifting a hand, he grazed her cheekbone with his thumb before easing his fingers into the knot she'd fashioned at her nape. All it took was a little wriggle of his fingers to dislodge the pen, sending her hair down her back in a heavy silken cascade. She blinked - slowly - her breath little more than whispered sighs.

"I have one caveat to make to that plan." His other hand circled around to splay against her lower back, pulling her even closer.

"What's that?"

But he'd already tilted her face up to his and kissed her - gentle, easy, a soft melding of lips and breath. Her hand curved more tightly around the back of his neck, ruffling the hair above his collar as she lifted herself up on her toes, deepening their contact. He smoothed his way over to press a kiss against her cheek, delving with the tip of his tongue at the dimple there, before returning to linger at the corner of her mouth, and then to kiss her again fully - deeply - until she broke away with a breathy sob.

"What's your caveat?"

But her eyes were on his mouth, and she didn't protest at all when he stopped her from asking again. When he teased her lips apart and took her from breathy to breathless in the space of a heartbeat. When his hands glided along her form, discovering and appreciating the strength and beauty there, even as he lost himself in the wonder that was her taste, her essence, her softness.

He needed air. He needed to stop, before he took things too far here on this street corner where tourists were still making their way along the pier, or back to their hotels. He needed to put some distance between himself and this enigma of a woman - to get some control back after he'd ceded it all to the hunger that was seething within. His hand tightened in her hair - tangling in the dark strands as he fought between the desire to lead her somewhere private, or push her away completely.

He raised his head, pulling her close enough to tuck her head under his chin and hold her tight. He breath came in rapid spurts - as if he'd just completed a training run, and he closed his eyes, purposefully turning inward to find his center.

Against him, she was waging a similar battle, the force of her exhalations hot on his chest. Her hands had fallen now, to stroke up and down his rib cage, and her heart beat in a rapid tattoo in the space between them. He could tell by its steadying pace when she'd regained her equilibrium.

"Sasha."

"Hmmm?"

"You asked me a question last night, but you didn't let me answer it." Tom's hands dropped from her hair to her shoulder, his fingers gentle on the cool skin exposed by her sweater. He couldn't help but smile when she shivered, knowing without a doubt that it had nothing to do with the cold. "So, I'll give you your five days - "

Her fingers stilled on his body. "You'll give _us_ the five days."

"Right. _Us_." He conceded. "But you asked me last night who I was. I have the right not to be nameless."

She leaned back in his embrace, peering up at him through the dark. "So? Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Tom Chandler."


	3. A Walk in the Park

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **A Walk in the Park**_

 _Please bear with me on the realism of the Naval War College scenario. I'm going by what's considered canon on the show, but my research tells me different things. I know it's highly unlikely that any of this would actually happen this way, but I'm hampered a little by what the showrunners and actors have stated about these characters' back history._

 _So – just go with it, K? It's a romance anyway, right? Not Top Gun. Ha ha ha._

 _ **-OOOOOOOO-**_

"Well, I see you dressed for the occasion." She stopped in front of him, crossing her arms across her body. She wasn't wearing jeans, for once. Probably owning to the warm morning, she'd donned some flippy sort of skirt and a light jacket. "Sweat pants and a t-shirt?"

"I was at physical therapy."

"Physical therapy?"

"Every other day for the foreseeable future." Tom was balanced against the back of a park bench in the shade, exactly where he'd told her to meet him. Newport had more than its share of parks. This particular one was in a more suburban area of the city, flanked on the North by an elementary school, on the east by a large strip mall, and hedged up elsewhere by newer subdivisions of cookie-cutter houses. Tom's physical therapist's office was in the strip mall. He'd have gone to the clinic on campus at the college, but the facility was torn apart in the midst of renovations. His on-base physician had recommended this place, so that's where Tom had ended up.

"The office is over there, somewhere." Throwing a vague gesture over his shoulder, he indicated the strip mall. "The park's handy. I'm supposed to walk afterwards to loosen things up."

"Mysterious."

"Not really." He glanced down the length of his body, grateful that it wasn't more evident. He tried not to dwell much on Kosovo, or the downed chopper, or the agonizing days he'd spent in Intensive Care. A year later, and he still wasn't at 100%. He didn't like talking about the whole thing - and had certainly never told Sasha anything about any of it. But then, he'd never told her anything about anything. Strategic anonymity was all part of her 'five days' plan. "I got hurt. I'm recovering. That's about all there is to the story."

"Oh, it has to be more interesting than that."

Tom gave her a lop-sided grin. "Maybe."

"Let me guess." With mock-seriousness, she scanned him from the top of his head to the toes of his worn sneakers. "Old football injury."

"Nope."

"You threw your back out doing gymnastics?"

"Nope."

"Extreme Frisbee Olympics?"

"Does that even really exist?"

"Not Extreme Frisbee, then." She leaned forward and ran a testing hand up his arm. "Shoulder dislocation due to excessive bowling?"

Shaking his head, he smiled. "No."

"Rodeo cowboy days finally bit you in the butt, huh?"

He actually laughed at that. "My rodeo cowboy days were miraculously injury-free."

"Slipped on some spilled macaroni and broke your coccyx?"

He lifted a brow and tossed her a casual leer. "There is _nothing_ wrong with my coccyx."

Stepping close, she ducked her chin, looking up at him from under those amazing eyelashes of hers. "Tantric sex injury?"

"Nope. Not a sex injury, tantric or otherwise." He bit back a laugh before feigning seriousness. "I stretch out first."

"Oooooh." She gave him another thorough gander before chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. "Is that part of the basic package, or a bonus introductory add-on?"

He made a little noise in the back of his throat. "To find that out, you'd have to make a reservation."

"You don't take walk-ins?"

Exhaling dramatically, he pushed himself off of the park bench he'd been leaning against. "By appointment only."

Tucking her hair back behind her ear, she nodded. "I'll let you know once I've checked some reviews."

Tom chuckled, taking a few steps down the walking path, he paused and held his hand out in silent invitation. Her response was nearly instantaneous, her slender fingers entwining themselves with his.

The walking path ran in a circular course around the park, which was about the size of a city block. In the center of the park was a large grassy area split into a few soccer fields, a pair of fenced basketball courts, and a large playground. On the outer edge of the park, between the meadow and the roadways, wide swaths of land had been left pristine, with old growth trees providing shade and a natural barrier, of sorts, between the children's play areas and the busy city streets.

Sasha had called him as the therapist had been removing the ice packs from his leg, at the very end of his appointment. He was stiff and and a little sore from his session - not unexpected with the injury and subsequent surgeries and recovery. While the staff in the therapy center always made him hit the elliptical or treadmill for a cool down, he'd found that walking outside had helped even more.

And walking next to her, touching her, hearing her - well, that made everything better, faster.

"So, what exactly did you injure?"

Tom pressed his lips tightly together, considering his answer. "I thought we weren't talking particulars."

Sasha seemed to worry that through for a moment before throwing him a quirky little smile. "Use generalities."

"Okay. I hurt myself."

"Come on, Tom. Surely an injury won't reveal enough to violate the Five Days Agreement." She poked his arm. "So, where's your boo-boo?"

He snorted a little. "My left leg. I was in an - accident - several months ago, and it's taken a while to get things back to normal."

"Ouch." Her fingers tightened around his. "Surgery?"

"A few." Tom looked down at her and was somewhat surprised that she was looking at him. "Plates, screws, wires. The ortho guy had a fun time with all the power tools."

"So, you're kind of bionic?"

"Steve Austin's got nothing on me, ma'am."

She leaned her body in to bump his. "I just might have to test you on that claim."

Biting back a smile, Tom glanced upwards at the myriad-colored leaves in the trees overhead. "I thought you were going to check out the reviews. See what my Zagat score was."

"Oh, I'm very thorough. I'll figure it out." Sasha tugged at his hand, stopping them in the middle of the path. "Tom?"

"Yeah?" Shifting around, he looked down at the woman beside him. "What's - "

But he didn't get anything else out before she'd fitted herself close to him, rising up on her tiptoes and threading her arms around his neck in order to press her mouth to his. Sweet, warm, soft - her body melted against his as she teased gently as his lips, lingering without delving deeply. Her hand traced a gentle trail down his jaw as she pulled slightly away.

His expression must have asked the question he was incapable of asking, because Sasha smiled and sighed, splaying her hand on his chest. "I've been thinking about doing that since I woke up this morning."

"You could have called."

"You were out getting all therapeutic."

"I would have worked around it."

"Really?" Her brows rose, and she stifled what was sure to have been a brilliant smile. Taking a half-step backwards, she loosened his hold on her, peering up at him as they stood in the exact center of the park's path. "I'll keep that in mind for next time -"

He couldn't wait until then. Tom softly tugged her back towards him with a hand on the small of her back. Deeper, this time, longer, until she'd tangled the fingers of one hand in his hair, her other hand clutching the shirt at his waist. Until she fell a little limp in his arms and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a purr. And then he felt that purr against his mouth as he trailed his way down her throat before taking her lips again in a kiss that was anything but sweet.

Tom smiled against her mouth, raising his head slightly to look at her, to watch as her eyes lazily drifted open and focused on his face. He waited until she'd cleared up a little before he said, "Sasha."

"Yes, Tom?"

"I have been thinking about doing that since I woke up this morning."

"Really." She ran her hand up his side, sliding it back down with a slow deliberation.

"Actually," he pushed an errant strand of hair away from her face. "I've been thinking about doing that since last night, when you drove away."

"You could have called me to come back."

"Would you have answered?" Reaching down, he captured her wandering hand in his own. "Would you have come back?"

She faltered a little bit, but when Sasha offered her answer, it rang with truth. "I don't know, Tom. I'm not sure. That might be - too complicated."

Damn it. She was right. He knew that all the way down to his toes - had known it since he'd agreed to the Five Days. But it hadn't helped him as he'd lain in bed the night before, remembering how she'd felt against him, how responsive she'd been in his arms, how hard it had been to let go.

He'd been restless when he'd gotten home, wanting things that he'd been perfectly capable of living without first during the deployment, and then during his recovery. Even before that, he'd been circumspect in his relationships, wanting more than casual flings and one-night stands. He'd dated, been social, having longer, more steady relationships here and there. But not since being sent off to Kosovo, and certainly not since coming home as he had - broken nearly beyond repair.

He hadn't really been looking for anything recently, either. It was just his luck that the one woman who had instantly managed to fascinate him had imposed a time limit on their relationship. She was right, though. Taking things that one step further would certainly make it harder to walk away when the time came.

 _But for now. . . For now._ For now, he was healing up nicely, and the day was bright and warm, and she was melting into him. For now, he was satisfied. Tom closed his eyes and pulled her close again, burying his face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in even as he meshed his hand into the softness of her hair.

A whack to the back of his head brought him back to the present. Turning, he stepped away from Sasha to see a little boy - around three or four- running pell-mell in his direction. A harried-looking woman was struggling along behind him, pushing another child in a stroller across the green of the park's grass towards the path.

"Ronan!" She shouted, tossing an apologetic look at Tom and Sasha. "I'm sorry - he threw his ball - and - Ronan!"

Tom looked around, scanning through the trees to find the boy heading towards the road, following the ball as it bounced through the sparsely wooded area on the other side of the walking path.

The mother struggled when the stroller hit an exposed root and toppled over, nearly screaming as she called after her escaping child while her other baby tumbled into the grass. "Ronan!"

Without a word, Sasha hurried towards the mother, handily plucking the baby out of the dirt. Tom took off after the boy. He hopped over the decorative rocks placed on either side of the walkway then sprinted through and around the trees, capturing Ronan half-way across the outermost driving lane. Pinning the squirming boy with an arm around his ribs, Tom retreated to the sidewalk just as the light changed down the street and traffic started moving again.

"My ball!" Ronan wriggled against Tom's body, throwing his little fists and feet wherever he could in a quest to get away. "Lemme go!"

"Calm down, kid." Tom plunked the toddler down on the sidewalk, then bodily turned the boy around to face him, crouching down painfully in order to look the kid straight in the eye. "You almost got yourself creamed by a car out there, dude."

"I want my ball!" He was cute enough - round pretty much everywhere. 'Solid', Tom's father would have said. His mother would have said, 'chunky'. He had longish black hair and dark brown eyes, which were, at the moment, narrowed in a wicked glare. "It's going to get blown up."

"Maybe." Tom glanced across the road to where the ball had gotten itself stuck in a drainage grate. "But that's better than you getting blown up, right?"

"I want my ball."

Stubborn little cuss. Tom stood, swallowing the curse that threatened. Putting on his most forceful expression, he pointed at a nearby bus stop, where an awning of sorts covered a cement bench. "Sit."

The kid actually considered disobeying until Tom narrowed one eye, frowning down at him as if he were a new recruit. Toddling over, Ronan hiked himself up on the bench and stared back at Tom. "Are you gonna get my ball?"

"Maybe." Tom frowned. "Are you going to stay on the bench?"

"If you'll get my ball."

Making a quick scan through the trees, Tom saw Sasha holding the baby, brushing leaves and grass of its blanket, while the near-frantic mother was making her way towards the sidewalk, tears visible on her cheeks. Rolling his eyes, Tom pointed again at the kid. "You sit there. If you move, I'll pop the ball myself."

Apparently, it was a deal. Ronan settled back on the bench and stilled, staring expectantly across the street at the brightly-colored sphere. Tom turned towards his objective, strategizing the rescue. The light had changed again, and the street was mostly clear of cars. Jogging out into the middle of the street, he paused as a taxi meandered down the opposite lane. Once it passed, Tom hurried the rest of the way over towards the grate. Safely on the opposite sidewalk, he leaned over and yanked the ball free, and then jogged back across the street.

The kid's mom had made it to the bench, but her stern lecture was cut short by the boy leaping towards Tom and making a play for the ball.

"Hey, there Ronan." Tom rested the ball high on his chest, far out of reach of the leaping boy. "I want you to turn around and look at your mom."

Glaring at Tom, the kid turned. Leaning forward, Tom spoke directly into Ronan's ear. "See how sad she is? How scared? How worried?"

"Yeah."

"Your mom loves you, kiddo, and you ignored her. You ran away from her when you should have listened to her. And then you almost got hit by a bunch of cars."

"I didn't mean to." Ronan looked sideways towards Tom. "I just wanted my ball back."

"But you could have gotten another ball if it got squished." Tom rested his hand on Ronan's shoulder. "Your mom couldn't have gotten another Ronan if you'd gotten squished."

Understanding dawned in those deep brown eyes. Ronan passed a worried look from Tom to his mother, and then back to Tom. "I didn't mean to."

"I know, buddy." Tom nodded. "I know. But if I give this ball back to you, you have to promise me that you're going to stay out of roads. Okay?"

"Okay." Nodding, Ronan swiped a grubby hand at a suspicious wetness on his cheek. "I promise."

Satisfied, Tom handed the ball back to the boy, shoving him gently towards the bus stop bench. "Now, go tell your mom that you're sorry."

"Mm-Kay." Clutching the ball to his chest, the kid ran into his mom's waiting arms.

"Impressive."

He hadn't noticed Sasha approaching, yet there she was, the stroller at her side. "What?"

"I probably would have killed the kid." Absently, Sasha pushed the stroller back and forth with one hand in an effort to keep the baby inside calm. "You managed to save the day and keep your cool."

Tom shifted, trying not to wince in pain. Running through the park like that had probably set him back a few days' worth of physical therapy. He'd pay for it later. Carefully, he turned, taking care to not strain anything further. "So, are you planning on keeping the baby?"

Breathing out a laugh, Sasha shook her head. "I'm pretty sure that Mom over there would notice." She headed towards the bench, where Ronan and his mom had come to some sort of understanding. After some requisite niceties, and an effusive demonstration of thanks from Ronan's mom, Tom and Sasha waved their goodbyes and turned back towards the park's main gate.

"So, what do you do in your spare time?"

They'd gone about thirty yards before she'd spoken. Tom shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats. "What do you mean?"

"You leap through tall forests and rescue small children in a single bound." She leaned into him, rubbing her shoulder against his. "And all with a gimpy leg."

"Ah. Yes." He smiled into the distance. "I'm a real hero."

"You were right about the Steve Austin thing. Six Million Dollars, my eye." She grinned, looking out over the random collection of people on the green. "You'd have totally kicked his ass."

"Well, to be fair," Tom caught Sasha's attention, feigning seriousness. "Steve Austin never had to deal with the likes of Ronan."

"True!" Laughing, Sasha took his hand again. "So, did you get enough of a walk?"

"I did." He tightened his fingers around hers. "I didn't get enough time with you, though."

"Well, there's still the rest of the day." Tugging at the waistband of his sweat pants with her free hand, she wrinkled her nose. "After you put on something a little more dignified."

Stifling a grin, he snorted a little. "Snob."

She snorted back. "Slob."

"Nice. I go from being worth six million dollars to being accused of wearing homeless chic in what - three minutes?"

"Hey. I call it how I see it." She slowed to take another look. "However, I might be persuaded to revise my opinion on the homeless chic thing."

Tom kept walking, yanking her along with him with their still-linked hands. "Why's that?"

"View's not bad from behind."

"That's it!" He curled his arm around her shoulder, bringing her close. "All sweat pants, all the time!"

Giggling, she jabbed him in the ribs. "Maybe not."

They'd reached the park bench at the entrance. Stopping, Tom turned to smile down at Sasha. "You're right, though, I do need to go change."

Her eyes were bright with expectation. "Where should I meet you after?"

He checked his watch. "I actually have something I've got to do this afternoon. Are you free tonight?"

"What do you have to do? Maybe I could help?"

Frowning, Tom captured her face between his palms. With what he hoped was a convincing scowl, he stayed deeply into her eyes. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

"Top Secret, huh?"

"No real stuff." He shrugged, sending his fingers into the thick sleekness that was her hair. He couldn't seem to stop touching her. "That's the agreement, isn't it?"

Apparently, she couldn't, either. She leaned into his touch, resting her forehead on his sternum. "No real stuff."

"So, I'll call you when I'm done." He gathered her hair into a ponytail at her nape, stroking the tender skin at the back of her neck until she shivered slightly. He was mostly glad that she couldn't see him smile at that. "We'll do something tonight."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Dinner." Letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders and back, his hands drifted downward to hold her more closely to him. "Like regular people."

"But we're not regular people, Tom."

"You don't know that, Sasha." His hands stilled, then dropped to her hips. "We don't really know each other, do we?"

She craned her head up to look at him. Without a word, she shook her head slowly. _No_.

"And that's going to make it easier to let go, right?"

But it seemed to take her forever to answer. And when she did, she had to look away. "Right."

-OOOOOOOO-

He had an office. He'd never had an office before.

Tom stood just inside the doorway, staring at the simple metal desk. A single paper tray sat on top of the unassuming bit of furniture, as well as a newer telephone. A monitor and neatly-bundled cables indicated that a computer tower lurked somewhere below. What looked like a leather-upholstered rolling chair was tucked neatly into the knee well. Behind the desk, a mismatched set of bookshelves marched along the wall, He counted eight books on a single shelf - the rest were empty.

"It's not much to look at."

Startled, Tom turned towards the voice. Commander Sheffield wasn't a large man, a few inches shorter than Tom and much more slight. What he lacked in stature, however, he made up for in volume.

"Sir." Tom smiled, setting the backpack he carried down on the desk. "It's good to see you again."

"Tommy!" Sheffield boomed. "How the hell have you been?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Damn shame about the leg, son." The littler man made his way past Tom and deeper into the small office. "But I have to admit that we're happy to have you back here for a while. You were one of the best students we ever had here."

"Thank you, Sir." Tom looked down at his shiny shoes. "I hope that I can live up to your expectations."

"I'm sure you will." Perusing the books on the shelf, the Commander made a little clicking noise in the back of his throat. "You'd think that someone would actually read my instructions, wouldn't you?"

"Sir?"

"Totally wrong. I'd asked for a different set to be delivered up here. Russian naval history and strategy, particularly differences from before and after the Wall fell. Language instruction, and naval lingo. That's what you're here for. What did the bohunks down in the curriculum library bring up here?" Sheffield whacked the spines of the books with an open palm. "Three books about the Boer Wars, and the rest are all Japanese Naval tactics from World War Two."

"I can go and get the books I need." Tom reached out and placed his hat carefully on the desk next to the paper tray. "I've also got some back at my apartment that I'll bring in."

"I heard that you're living off-base." The older man grinned. "Rank has its privileges, doesn't it?"

Tom eased into a grin. "Absolutely, Sir."

"So, here's the plan." Sheffield perched himself on the corner of the desk. "This is an introductory program, one we've never done here before. To be honest, it's questionable that it'll happen again. But with mutterings and rumblings coming into the intel community, we need to bring this newest batch of recruits up to speed faster."

Well familiar with the results of those rumblings, Tom nodded, frowning. "To be honest, Sir, I was surprised that you'd requested me here. I'm only a Junior Lieutenant. Not quite up to par with the Lieutenant Commanders and Colonels around here."

"We need real-world experience. We need the boots-on-the-ground kind of information that will prepare these people to perform counterintelligence and to recognize dangerous tactics when they see them. Normally, we teach the leaders. In this case, we'll have the next generation of leaders instructing those who will soon be providing the information needed to keep this country safe."

"Understood."

"Good. We'll be performing a bit of dual-instruction. You'll be tag-teaming it with Lieutenant Alexeev. You'll each have specific areas of the course outline to cover. This specific group of sailors are mostly going into Naval Intelligence, so they need to know the particulars of Russian tactics both before and after the fall of the USSR."

Tom's brows drew together. "Alexeev?"

"Third generation Russian, his grandparents immigrated through Ellis Island and all. Interesting story - he'll tell you all about it." Sheffield rolled his eyes just a bit. "Believe me. He'll tell you _all_ about it."

"What's his history?"

"Master's degree in Russian history from - " the older man paused, thinking for a moment before raising a shoulder in a haphazard shrug. "Somewhere. I don't remember. He was a jock like you, and he's smart. But your spoken Russian is better than his, ironically enough, and you know more about the military side of things than he does, so I want you to talk strategy and he can fill the class in on the times and dates."

"So, that's it?" Tom rocked back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. "Just tactics and language?"

"Hell, no. That's wishful thinking, son." The Commander's chuckle filled the room. "I'll also have you out in the field as soon as you're cleared for it. We'll organize some drills and practice some ship-boarding techniques. You remember Bermudez, right? You two used to be tight. He'll be running some tactical shooting drills, and heading up the on-base armory. I want you on those drills. Just between you and me, Alexeev is good at the books, but a lousy shot."

"I'm qualified - "

"As expert marksman." Nodding, the older man pointed at Tom. "Why do you think I jumped at the chance for you to complete your rehab here? You're the whole package, Chandler. There's nobody I'd rather trust this batch of babies to. Any questions?"

"No, Sir." Tom shook his head, but thought better of it and caught the Commander's eye. "I have to admit, Sir. I'm a little nervous."

"Don't be." Leaning forward, the older man narrowed a look at Tom. "You'll do fine. It'll be a walk in the park."

A walk in the park. Tom's mind flew back a few hours to Sasha, and the walking path, and Ronan. He bit back the smile that he was sure would betray him, forcing his mind to concentrate instead on the task at hand.

"Speaking of babies." Tom took a few steps towards the desk. "Do I have a class list?"

"I'll get you one." Sheffield smiled, pushing himself off the desk and making his way towards the door. At the threshold he turns, throwing a knowing kind of look back at Tom. "But trust me. The sailors we get going through this place all look the same. Except they get younger every year."

The Commander's laughter followed him down the hall.

Tom turned back into his office, crossing towards the desk. Pulling out the chair, he lowered himself into it, gingerly babying his left leg. It was still sore from his sprint earlier, even after the hot shower and the ice he'd packed against it. A glance at his watch told him that he had three hours before he was supposed to meet Sasha.

Bending awkwardly, he found the 'on' button of the computer tower and pressed it. As the machine whirred to life, he pushed away from the desk and groaned to his feet. Grabbing the backpack he'd deposited earlier, he took out a few books and a binder. From the binder, he removed a sheaf of papers. He'd better get to the library, and then to the copy center. He had a lot to do in just three hours.

Three hours.

And after tonight, he'd just have three days.


	4. Something Real

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Something Real**_

"Tell me something real."

Tom looked at her over the rim of his glass. The candle on the table caught the blue in her eyes, sending shadows up through her eyelashes, making them look unnaturally long. Deliberately, he sipped his water, swallowing as he considered what she meant.

"Tom?" She ran a finger along the stem of her unused wine glass. It was busy in the restaurant, and the server - a chipper guy with the incongruous name of 'Blaze' - hadn't yet gotten around to clearing them away, even though their dinner was practically over.

Lowering his drink, Tom hesitated before answering. "What do you want to know?"

"Something true." She gave a little half-shrug. "Something about you that's real."

"But you said - "

"I know what I said." Sasha straightened the napkin on her lap, then turned her attention to adjusting the placement of her empty dish. "I know what we agreed to. I just want - I _need_ \- to know something real about you."

"You already know my name."

"I know." She smiled down at the remains of her meal. "I know. I just need to know something more."

"Like what?" Tom sat back in his chair, watching as she seemed to fight herself. He'd picked her up at a hotel near the art gallery she'd come out of on that first day. She had met him in the lobby, standing near the front desk wearing a dress that had reminded him of something out of one of those Audrey Hepburn movies his mother loved. Sleek and simple, it hugged Sasha's lithe form from knee to her neck, except where it scooped wide to reveal the elegant curves of her collarbones and shoulders. His mouth had gone dry when she'd handed him her coat, and he had to ignore his traitorous imagination as he'd settled it upon her.

He'd nearly dragged her up to her room, instead. Complications be damned.

Now, she sat across from him at their table, her skin nearly pearlescent in the glow of the candles, the flickering light capturing odd auburn glints in her hair, and he couldn't fathom why he'd agreed to keep things casual in the first place. "I'm male. I can tell you that without giving too much else away."

"Of that, I am powerfully aware." She fiddled with the dainty salt and pepper shakers that had ended up on her side of the table, passing him a look up from under her lashes. "Come on, Tom. Throw me a bone."

Blaze paused at their table, refilling their water glasses, and Tom waited for him to leave before continuing. "What kind of bone?"

"Something simple."

"Like what?"

"Tell me your birthday."

"Tell me yours, first."

"March." She crossed her arms on the table, leaning forward. "March 28th."

Tom raised a brow. "What year?"

With a rueful smile, she flickered a glance towards the still-empty wine glass. "Don't worry. I'm legal."

"I figured you were." He stretched his legs out under the table, wincing a little in pain. "At least, I'd hoped you were."

"Is that why you didn't order wine with dinner?" One dark brow rose into a perfect arch. "You thought I wasn't old enough to drink?"

He threw her a knowing sort of look. "We met in a bar, remember?"

"I do." Sasha went back to rearranging things, this time adjusting the placement of her dinner fork in the center of her plate. "I was there."

"Then obviously, I figured you were of age." Tom watched as she turned her attention to the positioning of her knife. "I wouldn't have played that stupid game if I had thought you were underage."

"So, age is important to you?"

"Yeah. Kind of." Tom nodded. "I'm not really into in dating jailbait."

"Jailbait, huh?"

Tilting his head to one side, he leaned into the table, resting his weight on his forearms. "I'm a grown man, Sasha. I'm truly uninterested in spending my time with little girls. When I approached you at that bar, I fully intended to accomplish the mission I'd been given and then throw your number away."

"So, you knew that I was old enough to be in the bar, but didn't think that I was going to be old enough to what - be interesting?"

"How was I to know what you were like?" He reached out and switched the salt and pepper shakers - just for something to do. "My friends had picked you as the target. All I saw was tight jeans and curves in all the right places. I had no idea that you'd be - "

She studied him, waiting for him to complete his sentence. When she'd lost her patience, she offered a prompt. "That I'd be what? An 'obstinate, headstrong girl'?"

His fingers stilled. "Obstinate and headstrong, huh?"

"I freely admit to both of those attributes." Her lips curved into a rueful smile. "Why else do you think that I relate so much to Lizzie Bennet?"

"But Lizzie wasn't a girl. She was a woman." Tom leaned back again. Blaze had reappeared, and was clearing away the empty dishes, including the unused wine glasses. Once he'd left, Tom continued. "And just for the record, you could have ordered yourself a glass of wine, or whatever, if you'd wanted a drink."

"You're not a wine buff?"

"Not really." He shook his head. "I'm not big on alcohol. I'll have a beer every once in a while, but I don't like it much."

"What about it don't you like?"

"The taste, for one." Again, he stretched his stiff leg out under the table, careful not to accidentally kick Sasha. The main reason he wasn't drinking was the damned leg and its apparent revulsion to his mad dash after the kid at the park earlier. He hadn't yet had to resort to taking the pill he'd shoved into his pocket, but alcohol would have taken away that option. He wasn't going to admit that to Sasha, however. The mere presence of the capsule felt like weakness.

"Yet, you'll drink beer."

"I'm not against alcohol. I do my share of social drinking with friends." He glanced towards the restaurant bar, where a few guys had gathered around whatever game was playing on the wall-mounted TV. "And when it's appropriate. I'm not completely against it. Its just not something that I choose as a default activity."

"So, for you, it's totally social, rather than an escape." She contemplated that. "I haven't met many guys in our generation who have thought that way - except for the odd Mormon or Southern Baptist."

He thought about that for a minute. "I guess when you watch people struggle with the effects of it, you are more aware of its pitfalls."

"Ah." Nodding, she threw a look over to the group of men he'd indicated before. "So this is a thoughtful choice based on your observations."

"And my experiences." Tom scratched a little at a spot under his chin. "I've watched as people have allowed a substance to completely change who they are."

"So, it's not just the taste."

"Not just the taste."

"Have you ever gotten good and plastered?"

"Once." He brushed an errant crumb off the table cloth in front of him. "When I was young and stupid. I didn't like the feeling."

"I got into my parents' liquor cabinet when I was around fifteen." Sasha frowned at the memory. "We were in Seoul for a few years, and my mom had really become enamored by soju - it's this rice wine stuff that's usually fruity and sweet. I was a brat, really, and mad at her pretty much all the time for one reason or another, so one night, while they were out at some formal function, I invited some other ex-pat kids over and we had a party."

Tom had actually experienced soju. He'd had a day's liberty in Seoul during one of his first times at sea, and a pretty local girl had convinced him to try it. Figuring that experience would count as 'too personal', Tom chose not to share it. "I take it that things didn't end well?"

"Explosively. Everyone got sick. They all ended up hunched over whatever receptacle they could find, emptying their guts out. I managed to hold things together, but when Mom and Dad came home, they made me call all of the kids' parents and then I had to clean it all up."

Tom couldn't help it but grimace at the thought of that. "That sounds revolting."

"You have no idea."

He'd been to both college and boot camp, however - and had seen similar displays. However, that was probably just more information that was sure to violate their agreement. "Oh, I think I do."

"So, I can drink. I hold my own." She raised her water glass in a mock toast. "I just usually choose not to."

Tom watched as she sipped and then returned the cup, allowing himself the indulgence of a slow, leisurely appreciation of the ambiance, of the intimate moment, and of the woman sitting across from him. He suddenly realized that he was still hungry - but the sensation had nothing to do with the meagerness of the hoity-toity restaurant's entrees.

Sasha must have noticed the change in his expression. "What are you looking at?"

There really wasn't any point in denying it. "You."

"Why?" She tossed him a coy look that might have been flirtatious, but was probably just genuine curiosity.

He only hesitated for a heartbeat. Something real. She'd asked to hear something honest, so he told her. "Because you're intelligent. And you intrigue me. And I would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything other than making small talk over this table."

Her eyes deepened a little, her lashes dipping low. "Why?"

"Because you're all the way over there." Tom's gaze swept over her again, and he didn't bother trying to hide the pleasure he took in what he saw. Nor did he bite back the slow, easy smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Exhaling slowly, he captured her eyes. "And the table is in the way."

Her lips quivered before she gave up and dimpled into a wide grin. She took her time straightening the napkin again, re-situating herself on her chair, tucking her hair behind her ear. Finally, she seemed to trust herself to look at him across the single flame dancing on the candle. "Well, then. Maybe it's a good thing that we didn't get any wine."

He growled a little, deep in his throat.

Sasha seemed to take it as a question. "We've talked about not complicating this any further. I think that loosening our inhibitions would probably have led to those complications."

"Maybe." He tilted a speculative look at her. "Or maybe I'm just cheap. Wine is pricey."

She waved that off with a shake of her head. "You know what I really think? I think that you don't like losing control."

Tom had to admit that she had him there. Nodding, he made a little show of tapping his finger on the table. "True."

"So, you must do something in your real life that allows you to have control over your environment, and the people with whom you work."

He raised a brow in response. "I could say the same thing about you. You're not a person to just sit back and let other people walk all over you."

"I'm not, actually." Her bare shoulder lifted in a nonchalant little shrug."But sometimes, it's necessary to cede autonomy in the short term in order to get what you want in the long game."

Which was true, really. In the military, he'd had to give up a certain amount of control over his own existence. He couldn't choose where he went, or with whom. He couldn't select the mission, or the outcome. In return, however, he'd gain training, experience, and rank. And, eventually, he'd have his own command, and the status that went with it. "True. It takes time to work your way to the top."

"So, you're the kind of guy who always needs to be on top?" Her expression had gone from matter-of-fact to sassy in the space of a single heartbeat.

Tom couldn't quell the slow, meaningful grin that teased at his lips, nor keep himself from indulging in another leisurely examination of her, of her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, of her eyes - impossibly profound - of the fine line of her collarbone and the pulse that beat just above it. Running his fingertips across the fabric of the tablecloth, he canted his head to one side, focusing on her mouth - at how her lips had parted in what - Invitation? Hesitation? - at how her breathing had become a little less even. When he answered, his voice was low. "I know how to play well with others."

"That sounds like a promise, Tom Chandler."

"Maybe it is, ma'am."

 _Complicated_.

Tom felt a movement near his elbow, and he looked up to see Blaze, standing expectantly, holding two small, leather-bound folders. Raising up the larger of the two, the server glanced between Tom and Sasha. "I have the dessert menu here if you two are interested."

Tom shook his head. "None for me. Sasha?"

"No." She brought her napkin up to rest on the plate. "Thank you, though."

"All right then." Shoving the first little book into the front pocket of his apron, Blaze set the other folder near Tom's elbow. "I'll take care of that whenever you're ready, sir."

-OOOOOOO-

"So, you never told me."

"Told you what?"

"Your birthday."

Tom had paid the bill, shoving cash into the leather folder before escorting Sasha towards the coat check stand. They'd meandered down from the restaurant towards the sea, making their way down the longest of the piers and towards the landing.

It was cold, and the moon hung high in the cloudless sky, limning the tips of the waves with an ethereal greenish glow. Tom leaned back against the railing, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He hadn't bothered buttoning it. The cold air was helping to keep other - more complex - sensations at bay, and he welcomed the help.

Grudgingly, he had to admit that the conversation helped, too. "So, we're back to that."

Sasha tugged her coat more tightly around her, turning the collar up against the breeze. "I didn't think it was too much to ask."

"It's not."

"So?"

Tom shifted on his feet, tilting his head over his shoulder to look out over the rocky shoal and easy waves of the bay. When he looked back at Sasha, she'd moved closer to him.

"December ninth."

For whatever reason, that seemed to satisfy her. She walked over to stand next to him at the railing, surveying the ocean like a queen. "Thank you."

She hadn't faced him, and Tom didn't force the issue, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she seemed to contemplate the intricacies of the sea. For a long, long time, she simply stood there, gazing out over the bay, the breeze teasing at the hair she'd tucked loosely under her scarf.

Tom reached out and looped the scarf around again, securing the dark mass under the heavy knitted length. "You know, if you're going to keep hanging out by the ocean, you might want to invest in some bobby pins."

"I've always hated having my hair pulled back." She wriggled a little against the hold the scarf had on her hair. "Even as a kid."

"Then you could cut it."

"I tried that, once." Her teeth flashed in the moonlight. "My mother was enamored with Lady Diana, and she was tired of me complaining about having to brush it. She marched me down to her hairdresser, and I ended up looking like a boy."

Tom scowled, taking the opportunity to study her features again. "I fail to see any possible way that you could look like a boy."

"I was a singularly homely child."

"Impossible."

"Seriously. I had an overbite, and I was always sunburned, with bruises and scraped knees. Freja tried to keep me presentable, but - " Sasha stopped, her eyes widening with the memory. "There was really no hope for me."

"Freja the nanny."

"Right."

"So, I'm assuming you had braces."

"Lots of orthodontia. Retainers and everything." She flashed the perfect result, just for effect. "And then, after the drunken party incident, my parents decided that I needed even more stability, so they sent me to Switzerland to finish high school."

"Boarding school?"

"Two, actually." Pivoting, she leaned back against the rail, mimicking his pose. "I got kicked out of the first one. The nuns didn't like me teaching the other girls how to play strip poker."

"And the second one?"

"It suited me more." Her tone indicated that she'd said everything she was going to say about it. "How about you?"

"My life was much more boring than yours." He caught a glimpse of a sailboat out past the buoys, taking a late-night jaunt. "Normal high school, normal family life. My dad traveled a lot, so he wasn't home much. My mom stayed at home with us, but substituted at the middle school when she could. Money was always tight, so we didn't do a lot of traveling."

"I'll bet you played sports."

"You'd bet right." He watched as the sailboat made its way past the pier and further out to sea. "Football and baseball."

"And I know that you have a sister."

"And a little brother." Tom thrummed his fingers on the rail. "He's an accountant. My little sister teaches special education students in the same town where we all graduated. She's married with two kids."

"The closest thing I'll ever have to children is Freja's kids."

"You kept in touch with the nanny?"

"Of course." She shivered - totally involuntarily. The breeze had kicked up a bit. "She was closer to me than my parents were, in all honesty. She was with us until I was around twelve. She fell in love with a businessman she met while we were living in Tokyo. They eloped, and soon after that, my parents were assigned elsewhere. Freja stayed with her husband. She has the cutest little passel of Swedish - Japanese children you've ever seen."

Tom had absolutely no idea what to say to that, but she was shivering again, so he reached out and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close. Her entire body was trembling, her face frigid where she burrowed against his neck. He pulled at the sides of his overcoat, wrapping them around her to provide her with an added layer.

"Why didn't you tell me you were so cold?"

"Obstinate and headstrong, remember?" Her breath was warm against his chest, her hands like ice even through his jacket and dress shirt.

"Do you want to head back to your hotel?"

She sighed, her hand flattening on his chest. She'd already started warming her other hand on his side, spread against his ribs. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Too complicated?"

"Too complicated."

"Want to go back to my car and make out?"

He felt, rather than heard her giggle.

"Well, it's a truck, actually, as you know." Tom tried not to notice the slow, easy moves of her fingers on his side, nor the way her hair smelled, nor how her body had practically melted against his. "But it's got a heater, so - "

"Also complicated." Her body had quieted a little, enough so that she turned her face to rest her cheek against his chest. "I wasn't expecting it to be so chilly. It's been so nice out for the past few weeks."

"True." He closed his eyes as her other hand made its way into his coat, resting just over his heart. "But this is Newport. And it's nearly November."

"What about that global warming I keep hearing about?"

"Ah, well." Tom pressed his face into her hair, inhaling deeply. "Obviously, it's a crock."

This time, he heard her laugh, as well as felt it. When she fell silent, he pulled her a little tighter, ridiculously satisfied that he - that his body - had provided her the warmth she'd craved. Not that he'd ever say so out loud- she'd probably roundhouse him with those heels of hers. And however much her hotel room, or his truck, or hell - even a park bench - sounded like a damned fine idea, he discovered that he was also content merely to stand here, on this pier, holding her.

It took a long time for her to speak again, and when she did, she didn't look up at him. "I might not be able to see you tomorrow.."

He frowned a little. "Oh?"

"I've got a - thing - to do." She rubbed her index finger against his tie. "Real life stuff. In the evening. I'll only be available in the daytime."

"Okay." His jaw tightened as disappointment flooded through him. "Well, I've got meetings all morning and afternoon."

"All day?" Pulling back, Sasha looked up at him. "Seriously?"

"The whole damned day." Tom shook his head. "I definitely can't get out of it."

"I can't get out of my obligation, either." Sasha glared at the button on the tip of his collar. "So, I guess that we'll have to plan on the next day."

"The next day." He exhaled heavily. "That kind of sucks."

"I'm going to miss you, too."

A sharp pang pierced through him as he realized that he _would_ miss her. That in three days - _three days_ \- she had become a necessary part of his life. And he only had one day left. One day before she went her way and he tried to go his. No matter how hard he tried to keep things nonchalant, he could feel a thread of desperation making its way up his spine. "I can see you after your real life thing. I'll wait up. Meet you somewhere."

"I can't ask that of you. I have no idea when I'll be done."

"Sasha - "

"Tom." Her fingers twizzled his tie again. "I would really like to stop talking now."

"Okay." He breathed out, nodding. "Well, pretty much everything's closed by now, but I'm sure we could find something to do."

"Oh?" She couldn't seem to help it when her gaze slid from his eyes downward, to rest on his mouth. "Well, then. Suggest something."

"Well, yesterday, you said something about Frisbee - "

She was laughing as she kissed him, her lips teasing the side of his neck just above his collar.

"Or dominos. We could play dominos."

Another touch, sliding up to a spot just under his jaw. Warm, slow, she lingered, brushing her mouth from side to side against the roughness of the stubble there. She'd moved her hand, sliding up his side, up his chest, to curl around the back of his neck.

It took effort to control his voice. "Horseshoes?"

"Shut up, Tom Chandler." Sasha smiled against his skin, the tip of her nose cool against his cheek.

"Or what?"

"Just shut up." She ran her other hand up his chest, smiling when he flinched at her touch. "You're cold, too."

"Among other things." He tilted his face and met her mouth - teasing her lips apart and delving deep. She tasted of spice - and the mint she'd purloined from the hostess stand on their way out of the restaurant. Cool and warm and sweet and perfect. His senses were wild - heightened - with the breeze still nipping at him, and brazen want coursing through him.

She was tight against him, but still too far away. He wanted more - closer - _now_. Tom found his way through the layers of coat and scarf to run his hands over her body - the sleek softness of her dress poorly mimicking the velvet of her skin. His hands molded themselves to her curves, sliding over her hips and around to splay against her back, kneading slightly, bringing her closer to his own heat even as his mouth learned her rhythms, her sweetness, her feel.

And then deeper, longer, slower. Her fingers made their way to his cheek, gripping at him as if she were trying to control the intense spiral of sensation clutching them. She moaned as his hands explored, learning her form, discovering the incredible smoothness of her shoulders, of her nape, her hair as it lay captured by the heavy softness of her scarf.

She trembled as his hands bracketed her ribs, firm, and bold, lifting her up against him. His breath heated her cheek, her jawline, her ear, as he nipped his way down her throat, unwinding the scarf to warm her shoulder with his breath and lips.

He couldn't think anymore, he just _wanted_. Aching - _everywhere_ \- needing more than was genteel, or even possible at midnight in the cold on a pier. She'd wrapped her arms around his shoulders, the tips of her toes dangling against the wood of the landing, her entire weight borne by his frame. He welcomed it - even as his leg remonstrated its disapproval. Ignoring the pain, he scraped his cheek along her neck, making his way back to her center, meeting her kiss for kiss - wild and audacious and raw. And her body - her core - proved willing - morphing from shivering in the frigid night to throbbing with heat.

 _Where was that damned park bench?_

"Tom." It was nearly a plea. Her face was pressed into his neck, her breath hot on his ear, her voice muffled by the wind, and the collar of his coat, and by the moment.

Against his chest, her heart beat furiously - on pace with his own - and he knew that she was teetering on the same precarious edge as he. Cursing himself, damning his own lack of self-control, he lowered his arms, allowing her to stand again, bracing her with his hands on her sides until she'd found her balance. He couldn't stop touching her - needed to know her more than he'd required anything in his life. At this moment, she _was_ life, and he was desperate to hold onto her.

"Tom." Calmer, she'd cradled his face in her palm, now. Still, her lips rested against his skin, as did his against the dark luxury that was her hair. "Darts."

Opening his eyes, he stared through the darkness into the bay, at the way the moon sparkled on the tips of the waves. Darts. _Darts_?

"I'm sorry - "

"Maybe we should have gone to play darts." She raised her head from his shoulder, peering at him with eyes that were still unfocused.

Ah. He pulled himself together enough to come up with what he hoped was a witty response. "Am I that bad a kisser?"

She shook her head, her mouth curving into a sad little smile.

"Because it's been a while for me." He settled his hands on her hips, again. It felt like he'd come home. Like the most natural thing in the world to be standing, melded with this woman, sharing heat and passion and time. "I could probably use a refresher course."

"Shut up, Tom."

He frowned down at her. "The last time you told me that, things nearly got biblical."

But she merely studied his face, touching him here or there - as if she couldn't quite stop herself - as if she needed to make sure that he was real, and that she had been part of the fire they'd created. Apparently satisfied, she moved her fingers off his face and down to his shoulder, to his tie, and then away. When she moved a half-step back, allowing a rush of cold air to whoosh between them, Tom felt a little lost.

"That wasn't wise." Her whisper was nearly whisked away by the wind. "We shouldn't allow that."

"Probably not." Tom shook his head. His hands felt empty - his body bereft. Just for something to do, he pulled her coat tight against the cold, adjusting the scarf, careful not touch anything but fabric. When he was done, he shuffled backwards, until he'd hit the railing with his back. "But you have to admit that there's something there."

"There can't be anything there, Tom." She tucked her hands deep into her coat's pockets. "This will be over day after tomorrow."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Yes." Nodding, Sasha took two - three - steps away from the water. Away from him. "It has to be."

"Why?"

"I already told you." She'd moved even further, up the pier and back towards where the restaurant they'd vacated sat on the bluff. "The time isn't right. I'm committed elsewhere."

"To someone else?" He couldn't control the panic that edged into his tone. "Is that what this is all about? Another guy?"

"Geez. No." Whirling, she strode up the pier towards the road. "Why do men always think that?"

She'd spoken more to herself than to him. Bewildered, Tom cursed into the wind, shaking his head. What the hell had just happened? Tamping down the anger itching at his backbone, he jogged up the boardwalk until he'd fallen into step beside her. "Sasha."

"What, Tom?" Too controlled. Her voice, her carriage, her response. Her jaw was tight, her arms stiff. Even through the heavy fabric of her coat, he could see the bulges of her fists in the pockets.

"Talk to me."

"Why? So you can accuse me more ridiculous crap?"

"Sasha!" He stopped, his shout biting through the night. "Damn it, Sasha."

"What?" She turned to face him, her eyes bright. "What do you want from me?"

And for that, he honestly had no answer. Because he didn't want anything that she could give. Or anything that he could accept right then - or even anything that was fair to ask. What he wanted was simply - more. More time. More moments. More heat.

 _More her._

Again, he wondered how it had happened. He'd been the guy to glide through his entire adult life, lazing his way into and out of relationships that had been fulfilling and pleasant and boring. He'd dated, he'd flirted, he'd fallen in and out of like with women when he'd had the inclination, and then forgotten their names as easily as he'd learned them. But Sasha - this woman, this stubborn, bold, smart, fascinating woman. She'd taken three days of his life and made him want lifetimes.

What did he want from her? Everything. _Everything_.

Still, he schooled his expression into one of polite calm. Taking a few steps towards her, he simply stood, watching as she fought her way through her own emotions. When he could trust himself, he exhaled slowly. And he lied. "Nothing. I don't want anything from you."

Her jaw worked a little before she responded. "Then why are we here?"

 _"Tell me something real." She'd asked._

 _But what was real was also impossible._

Tom shrugged. "I don't know."

"What the hell are we doing?" It wasn't possible to know whether she was talking to him, herself, or God. But her eyes raked over him again, as if she were committing him to memory.

"It's late, Sasha." He held out his hand, a gesture redolent with benignity. "Come on. Let's get you home."


	5. Barrels of Llamas

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Barrels of Llamas**_

 _Thank you all SO much for coming along on this journey with me. I appreciate the time it takes not only to read, but also to leave a review. Fanfic is truly a labor of love. We as writers fall in love with characters or shows, and then want to delve deeper into their stories. It takes time and effort (and a little bit of crazy) to create something for which there is no compensation other than fellow fans reading and commenting. It would be lonely and unfulfilling without someone else to share in it. Receiving a review, or a 'favorite' or 'follow' make it worthwhile._

 _Thank you!_

 _-OOOOOOOO-_

Sheffield had been right. Lieutenant Alexeev did enjoy talking about his ancestry. Tom had already heard at least three times about how the Alexeev patriarch had made his way from Moscow to Milwaukee at the height of the Russian Civil War, dragging his young bride and infant son along with him. They'd homesteaded for a while before becoming dairy farmers. The Lieutenant himself was the youngest son of the youngest son of that baby.

He'd just gotten married, according to the shiny gold ring on his finger. Chandler would bet good money that there'd be an announcement about the pending arrival of a whole new generation of Alexeevs before the term was over. Probably triplet boys who'd be born with gigantic muscles and their father's inability to grasp the basics of Russian syntax.

The only good thing to come out of the day's mind-numbing meeting schedule was its ability to muzzle Jordan Alexeev's constant yammering on the subject of himself. Small favors.

Tom stretched out in his chair, trying to loosen up his atrophied leg muscles. His foot had already fallen asleep enough times that he'd started keeping track of the occurrences in tic marks on the handout from the first meeting. Surreptitiously, he folded the paper back and read the title of that principal gathering. Even upside down, it was boring. 'Human Relations Challenges and Avoiding Sexual Harassment in the Military Educational System.'

That particular meeting had lasted over an hour and a half. The current demonstration was extolling the virtues of 'Inclusion'. Whatever the hell that was. Commander Sheffield had been droning on about its wonders for at least forty-five minutes, but all Tom could figure out was that he was supposed to let everyone take turns and facilitate their opportunities to succeed.

Well, duh.

There were several dozen instructors and professors in the auditorium, both civilian and military. Tom and Alexeev were the youngest in the room, with a smattering of civilian assistant professors only a few years older. It was easy to tell them apart - uniforms for the military personnel and sports jackets for the civilian. The last time Tom had been struggling to stay awake, he'd counted uniforms and compared them to non-uniforms. The tally had been about equal.

Sheffield was now taking questions, signaling the end of his presentation. A few hands went up, but Tom only listened to the answers with half an ear. Twisting his wrist, he checked the time. Nearly noon. He'd never been so happy for lunch in all his life. Twenty minutes later, when the lecture was over, he stood immediately and hefted his backpack over his shoulder. Tom was the first person out the door.

The mess hall was exactly where he'd remembered it, and he'd headed towards it quickly, his long legs eating up the distance with a grateful stride. It felt good to be moving again, even if it was just through hallways. Left, right, then straight down the main corridor. Coming out of one building, he angled across campus towards the common hall.

"Tommy!"

Without pausing, Chandler looked around. Lugo had been jogging to try to catch him, carrying what looked like the barrel to a sniper rifle. A yellow ticket dangled from one end.

He stopped to let his friend catch up. When he was close enough, he nodded towards the barrel. "Should I be worried?"

Bermudez came to a halt next to Tom, brandishing the barrel with a playful grin. "Nah, man. This is for some training we're doing later on this month with the Ensign group that you'll be working with."

"That's some prime equipment for a bunch of newbies."

"I'm doing a rebuild." He held it up so Tom could see, flicking the ticket with his index finger. "I couldn't get it bored out completely, so I sent it out to the armory at the sub station. I just got it back today"

"I don't remember sniper training when I was here."

"This group's a different animal, Tom." He started walking in the direction Tom had been going, the barrel at his side. "Mostly headed into intelligence stints. Sheffield brought me in to provide them with additional range work. I've never worked with them before, but the guy I'm replacing says that some of them are freaking beasts."

"What kind of intelligence recruits need sniper training?"

"The very important kind." Lugo gave him a knowing look. "The kind that gets sent into the really crappy places on this otherwise fine, beautiful Earth."

Chandler glanced over at his friend, readjusting the backpack on his shoulder. "Well, I'm here to lecture about Russian Naval strategy, but Sheffield says that he's hoping I'll be able to help out with the war games."

"Speaking of which." Lugo gestured in the random direction of Tom's leg with the dismembered bit of rifle. "How's the injury?"

"Stiff, actually." Cutting over a grassy patch, he stepped carefully on the uneven ground. "Too much sitting."

"I do not envy you that at all, friend." Lugo hissed out a breath. "All those meetings. All that rigmarole. Dude. That's like death to me."

"Well, trust me when I tell you that it's better than sitting at home staring at the walls."

"Maybe." Lugo cringed when the barrel clinked against a light pole. "At least at home, you wouldn't have to worry about Ensigns. They're all practically newborns."

They'd arrived at the mess. Tom reached for the handle and opened the door, spreading it wide so that Lugo and his gear could make it through. Once the door was swinging shut behind them, Tom nodded. "True."

It was empty. Classes hadn't started as of yet, so there weren't any students around. The senior professors and military leadership had sequestered themselves for lunch in a conference room in the main building, and Tom had fled as soon as the presentation was over, dodging Alexeev on the way. He'd intended on multitasking during his meal - collating and stapling his handouts together as he ate rather than take the chore home to do after his meetings.

He'd been priding himself on his efficiency, but deep down, he had to admit that he was trying to omit any conflicts in the unlikely case that Sasha would call him. Not that he'd expected her to. He had no idea what to expect after the way things had been left the night before. Hell, he wasn't even sure what had happened the night before.

The drive back to the hotel had been quiet, and Tom had walked Sasha into the lobby with minimal contact. He'd helped her take her coat off, and then draped it carefully over her arm while she'd stood near the front desk. There had been so many things that he'd wanted to say to her - clarifications, explanations, excuses - but the night desk clerk had been omnipresent and curious, and so Tom had merely helped Sasha off with her coat, and then bent awkwardly to lay a chaste kiss on her cheek.

The clerk had smirked at that, but Tom had chosen to ignore it. Instead, he'd murmured his good nights, and then left. He hadn't been able to get to sleep until nearly dawn.

She still hadn't called him. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been silence. The most maddening part of the whole thing is that he had no idea what had even gone wrong.

"So. Pizza?"

Startled, Tom blinked himself back to the present. "What?"

"Looks like our choices are pizza, grilled chicken something-or-other, or the rabbit trough."

"Rabbit trough?"

Lugo pointed in response, and Tom followed the gesture to the opposite side of the room where there was long table filled with salad makings. "Rabbit food, right?"

Grinning, Tom shook his head. "Yeah. I'll pass on that, too. Pizza it is."

Crossing to a table, Lugo deposited his cargo across two chairs before rejoining Tom in line. "What's wrong, bud?"

Sighing, Tom raised a brow in his friend's direction. "What the hell has happened to this place?"

"What do you mean?

Nodding his head towards the food warming behind the counter, Tom frowned. "Remember back in the day? They used to have burgers, and SOS, and those fish patty things with that crappy sauce. Now look at this stuff."

Lugo laughed. "Dude. Haven't you heard? We've been taken over by the health police. The whole damned country is sentenced to eat nothing but arugula and brown rice until those are found to cause cancer, too."

"No kidding." Tom grabbed a tray and caught the eye of one of the cafeteria workers. Pointing at an entree, he waited until it had been plated, and then accepted it over the top of the glass. "What ever happened to normal food, anyway? I went to a restaurant last night, and the main course was served on this gigantic plate - but there was hardly anything to it. I almost went through a drive-through on the way home."

Bermudez had just sat down when he froze, shooting Tom a speculative stare. "So, that _was_ you?"

Tom lowered himself into his seat. He took his time situating his tray before looking up at his friend. "That was me where?"

"The Charthouse." Lugo shook his head, grinning widely. "I told Martin and Wilson it was you, but they kept saying I was crazy."

Tom reached for a napkin from the dispenser, laying it carefully next to his plate before responding. "The Charthouse, huh? Fancy place."

"The Ignoble Pirates were playing at a dive bar a few places down, and I could have sworn that I saw you through the window as we walked past." Lugo narrowed his eyes at Tom. "That was you, wasn't it?"

He'd bent to pull a stack of papers from his backpack, and he ducked his head even further to hide his reaction before straightening again. "What time?"

"Around nine-thirty. Maybe ten." Shrugging, Bermudez leaned forward to hover over his plate. "Does it matter? What's important is who the chica was."

"Oh?" Tom arranged the papers next to his tray before sending his friend a probing sort of look. "Who was this supposed woman?"

"The hottie from our Maverick night." Extending a hand, Lugo whacked Tom's shoulder. "You've been holding out on us, amigo."

There was no point in lying. He and Sasha agreed to only spend five days together - not hide the fact that they were seeing each other from anyone. Tom looked down longingly at his cooling pizza, but sighed and leaned back in his chair, instead. "I took a chance and called her."

The smile emanating from Bermudez reeked with bravado. "I knew it. Once I saw her lay that smoocher on you. I knew that you two would be hooking it up."

"I called her, Lugo. I didn't say that I'd done anything else with her."

The smile faded. "So - no hook up?"

Chandler chose his words carefully. "We're spending some time together. Dating - or whatever. It's not going any further than that. She's leaving town, and I'll be busy here, so after tomorrow, it's pretty much over."

"So - no - " Lugo's gesture asked his question for him.

"Jeez, man." Tom cringed, swiping a hand across his smooth-shaven jaw. "No. Not that."

"Bummer." For a moment, the two men merely sat in silence, then Lugo leaned forward in his chair. "But you've still got tomorrow."

"Dinner. Maybe a movie." But that was only if she'd answer him if he called her. He'd noticed on his way into the College that the art theater near his apartment was holding a revival of 'The Philadelphia Story'. Immediately, he'd thought that a complex woman like Sasha would appreciate another complicated woman like Katharine Hepburn. "But after tomorrow, it's done."

He'd practiced saying those words - imagined feeling okay with saying those words, but when he'd finally said them, it hurt. Tom slunk down a little in his chair, glaring at the neatly stacked papers he'd been intending to collate. If only his life were as orderly.

"That's gotta suck, right?"

A massive understatement. Tom turned up a hand in a gesture of acceptance. "Pretty much. But it is what it is, right?"

"Mmm." Bermudez tapped his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "But still - you've got one more day."

"Yes." Was it possible to look forward to something and dread it at the same time? However much he wanted to see her again, the thought of leaving her behind caused a knot to form in his gut. He'd felt physical pain beyond what he'd thought a human could endure over the past year, but he knew he wasn't prepared for the toll it would take to walk away. Maybe it would be better to leave things as they'd fallen the night before.

"Then seal the deal, man." Bermudez picked up his pizza, took a bite, and then continued around chewing. "Make your move. Snag the Betty."

"Snag her."

Swallowing, he raised a brow. "You know what I mean."

"Yes." Tom grimaced up at his friend. "I know what you mean."

"Dark movie theater. You've bought her a nice meal. She's woozy from from wine and your manly charm. You walk her up to the door and boom!" He slapped his hand on the table top, making their plates clink. "You make your move."

Tom honestly couldn't imagine Sasha as 'woozy', but that wasn't the salient argument to make against Lugo's plan. "Bermudez - it's not like that between us. Neither of us want to start something that's going to be messy to finish."

"Nothing messy about consenting adults spending quality time together."

"It's the afterwards part that tends to bite you in the ass."

"Damn, Tommy." Lugo threw out his hands in exasperation. "Have some fun, man."

"Just leave it alone, Lugo." Tom's voice was low, his meaning clear. "This is how it has to be."

For a moment, Bermudez seemed to turn his entire concentration to the large slice of pizza in his hands, but Tom knew that he wasn't solely concentrating on his food. For all of his playful bluster, Lugo Bermudez was more intelligent, and far more insightful, than he usually let on. It was why Tom had gotten as close to him as he had - where most of the guys from their training units had been adrenaline junkies itching for action, Lugo had possessed the remarkable ability to assess situations and people with near-perfect accuracy. Just as Lugo had gravitated towards Tom's natural leadership abilities, Tom had appreciated his friend's perceptive talents.

Except for right now, when the man was looking right through him, clearly seeing what Tom didn't want him to see.

And he iterated as much. Licking sauce off his thumb, he frowned over at Tom. "You don't want that, though, right?"

"Lugo - "

"She's something else, isn't she? Something special."

Tom dropped his chin to his chest, closing his eyes against the ache that burgeoned up whenever he thought of walking away. "She is."

"Then fight for it, man." Lugo had turned serious. "Don't just let her go. You've got to fight for it."

Tom had no answer for that, so he merely shook his head a little, looking at his uneaten lunch on the table without really seeing it.

"Tommy. Speaking man to man." Lugo kicked the leg of Tom's chair, drawing his attention. "I'm not that good with the chicas - right? I'm a smart-ass, I don't take too many things seriously, and I'm not great in the whole romance department. I'm not suave like you are. And really - I don't care. I don't want anything more right now. Too happy playing the field."

"I'm not - "

"Shut up and let me finish." His lunch was now little more than a crust. Setting it down, he held up a palm, his expression earnest. "You're not like me. You've never gone for the quickies, right? Even back in the day when the girls were stuck to you like white on rice - you never went for the easy score. I mean - you got plenty of action, but not casually or without some sort of connection. You've always treated your women with respect, one at a time. You weren't ever a player. You're a gentleman. That's just who you are."

There was no arguing with the truth. Tom merely waited for his friend to continue.

"But this girl - I don't know. You seem off somehow. Like this one's different. Like you're not just in it for the company. And maybe I'm wrong - I've only met her the one time and all, so maybe I'm just pulling this out of my butt - but I don't think that you're all that ready to just throw in the towel. Last night I could see you through the window. You were not looking at her like you were happy with letting her skate, man." He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You know what I mean?"

Tom did. He just knew that it wasn't possible. Wishing for what he wanted wouldn't make it happen, no matter how amazing it would be. "I'm not going to sleep with her and hope that makes her stay, Lugo. She's got her goals, and I'll be busy with my work here. Nothing's going to change because of a quick lay."

He grabbed his crust, pointing it across the table. "I'm not just talking about sex, dude."

"I know." And he did. But it was easier to dismiss a physical ploy than think about begging her to let him into her real life. Because with Sasha, he didn't think he'd be above begging, if he thought that it might work. Besides, he'd already accepted the fact that it wouldn't. Hadn't he? His throat closed a little on the thought."Regardless. After tomorrow, it's done. I'm good with it. Really."

Taking another massive bite of his pizza, Lugo raised a skeptical brow. He chewed and swallowed in record time before declaring, "Denial is a beautiful place to live, isn't it?"

"It's cool, Lugo." Tom tried to sound convincing. "We'll both move on."

"You're an idiot, Tommy." Reaching into his pocket, Bermudez pulled his wallet out. Flipping it open, he rifled through it until he found what he wanted. "When two people really like each other, but are too stupid to know what they really want, sometimes they do things that they aren't expecting to do. And when that happens, they should have friends who see through their mutual stupidity and make sure that they're prepared for the inevitable."

"Lugo - "

"Just in case." Lugo withdrew two small packages, flashing them for a moment before leaning forward and depositing them into Tom's shirt pocket. "You can give them back to me if I'm wrong."

"You're an idiot, Bermudez."

"Ah, but I'm a prepared idiot." Lugo shoved his wallet back into his pocket. "And, therefore, a great friend."

"Let me guess - they're your lucky ones?" Chandler couldn't believe he'd actually smiled at that.

Or that Lugo grinned back. "I've had those puppies since high school, man. I've been saving them for a special occasion." He wiped at his mouth with a napkin. Standing, he tossed the napkin on his tray before reaching over to heft the rifle barrel. Tossing Tom a lazy salute with his free hand, he stepped backwards. "Gotta get to the armory. See you tomorrow."

-OOOOOOO-

"I'm not going to apologize."

She'd spoken without preamble, and Tom had smiled into the receiver, settling back into his pillow. "I wouldn't expect you to."

"Because I'm such a stubborn brat?"

"Maybe." He bit back a yawn, blinking into the darkness of his room. He'd woken to the buzz of his cellphone on his night stand. He'd never been that sound of a sleeper. Or maybe he'd been keeping himself on the verge of alertness - just in case. Regardless, he'd known exactly who it was before he'd even flipped his phone open. "Or it could be because I have no idea what either of us did wrong."

"Nothing." Her voice was warm and rich - like hot chocolate. "Neither of us did anything."

"Hmmm." Tom grinned at his ceiling. "So, does that mean that I'm absolved?"

"What do you need to be absolved of, Tom Chandler?"

"Dunno. You tell me."

It took her a long time to answer. "Like I said, I'm not going to apologize. So, let's just pretend that nothing happened."

"According to you, nothing did happen."

"Tom."

"Yes, Sasha?"

"Just roll with it, huh?"

"I'm rolling."

"Good." She juggled the phone - probably moving it from one ear to another. And then she muttered something unintelligible and groaned. "Just a minute. I'm getting ready for bed."

"So, you just got home?"

But the muffled 'clunk' and then shushing sounds coming over from her end told him that she'd put the phone down, and was doing something in the background. Tom tried not to imagine what that might be. And then he failed at trying not to imagine it. When he blinked, his mind was filled with images of removed clothing, pearly skin, and a perfect combination of muscle and softness.

He was grateful when she interrupted his thoughts by speaking again. "Holy hannah, that feels good."

"What feels good?"

"Getting rid of certain articles of clothing. And being in my bed."

"So, I can assume that it was a long day?"

"Yes. You can assume that." She sighed into the receiver. "How was yours?"

"Boring." He couldn't keep the groan out of his tone. "Mind-numbing."

"That sucks." She paused, and he could hear dulled mechanical sounds behind her - her furnace? A space heater? And then she sighed again, and her next words were almost whispered. "I'm glad you picked up."

Tom rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I'm glad you called."

"I'm sorry, Tom." She'd spoken quickly, as if she'd been trying to quell the urge and it had just exploded out of her. "I was emotional, and frustrated, and I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that, and I'm sorry."

Instinctively, Tom knew how much that had cost her. Knew that she'd summoned up something extra to have been able to admit what she had. But he also knew that he hadn't needed an apology. He stopped her with a little sound in the back of his throat. "Sasha."

"Yeah?"

A car drove by his apartment, flashing headlights through the open blinds. Tom waited for the dark to settle again before breathing deeply and saying, "Tell me something real."

He could feel her relaxing, heard the tone of her voice ease. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you have any tattoos?"

"What, like a spring break butterfly on my lower back?"

"That's not you." He readjusted his arm behind his head. "I'm envisioning Japanese kanji. On your hip."

"What would the kanji say?"

"The tattoo artist told you it meant 'strength', but it actually means 'tomato'."

The noise she made sounded something like a grunt mixed up with a giggle. "Those kanji look nothing like each other."

"How would you know? You're looking at it upside down on your hip, or backwards in the mirror."

She laughed - breathy and soft - into the phone. "No. I don't have any tattoos."

"Okay." He thought for a minute before continuing. "Have you ever been married?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." She paused for dramatic effect. "When I was sixteen I married a blind and mute Tibetan monk. We had quintuplets and adopted a dozen rescue llamas. He got custody of all but the ugliest llama. It stays in my laundry room while I'm out earning money for child support."

"So, you're a llama mama?"

"And I'm a damn good one." She was fighting laughter - he could hear it in her voice. "Just to prove it, _alpaca_ you a fantastic brown-bag lunch."

Tom groaned, covering his eyes with his palm. "Good Lord, woman. You should warn a man before you say things like that."

She laugh-snorted. He would have liked to have seen that, positive that his imagination was not doing the image justice.

"Would you forgive me if I said that was _shearly_ accidental?"

"I think I'd forgive you anything if you'd stop with the puns. Or if you'd let me come over." He meant it. Tom stared at the popcorn-textured ceiling of his ancient apartment, a view with which he'd become increasingly familiar. He tried to keep any sort of desperation out of his voice, but was fairly sure he'd failed. "I want to see you."

It took her a long time to answer. "It's late, Tom."

He knew that, but glanced at the clock on his bed stand - 2:47 a.m. "Or, you could say that it's early."

She shifted the angle of the phone, presumably to muffle some response she didn't want him to hear. When she spoke again, her tone was carefully light. "I need to get some sleep. I've got visitation with the quints first thing in the morning. Ngawang hates it when I'm late."

"Ngawang?"

"My exhusband." She stifled a yawn. "His name means 'powerful speech' in Tibetan."

"Ironic."

"Why do you say that?"

It was Tom's turn to speak through his smile. "Didn't you say that he was blind and mute?"

"Yes, damn it."

"Damn it?"

The unmistakeable sounds of her rolling over in her bed accompanied her dramatic groan. "I screwed up in divorcing him. He was the perfect husband. Couldn't see it when I let myself go, and he couldn't complain about it even if he had."

The clock blinked to 2:48 as Tom mock-frowned at it. "You'd get no such pass from me. Good thing we're not getting married."

"You couldn't handle me, anyway."

"Of that, I am certain." He straightened out on his bed, tucking his arm under between his head and the pillow. "You're a hell of a woman, Sasha."

"You must need sleep." Her voice lowered. "You're getting all mushy on me."

"Mushy." Grinning up at the ceiling. "That is a word that has never been ascribed to me."

"Not even once?"

"Not even once."

"How about 'persistent'?"

"That one's more apropos." He breathed for a moment, listening to her fidget in her bed. "Speaking of which. Tomorrow."

"The fifth day."

"Which technically, I guess is today already."

"Yes." Something new tinged her voice - regret, maybe. Or apprehension.

"I want to see you."

"Well, there are the quints to think of." She'd tried to be light, but there was a hint of panic in her voice. "And the llamas."

"After the quints." He'd spoken too quickly, but was really beyond caring. "Sasha. Please."

She breathed out a broken little laugh. "I'm not sure I can do this. I'm not sure I can see you for the last time."

"It doesn't have to be the last time."

"Yes." She'd nodded, her hair moving against her pillow. "Yes, it does."

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on his phone suddenly unsteady. "Then just pretend it's normal. Pretend it's your run of the mill, everyday, average day. We'll go to an old movie and then get some clam chowder on the boardwalk and then say good night as if it wasn't the last time."

"Mmmm." It wasn't an answer, merely a musing. She yawned again, and then sighed into the phone. "Tom?"

"Yes, Sasha?"

"Good night."

"'Night."


	6. Scars and Stones

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Scars and Stones**_

"I can't believe you've never seen that movie."

"I'm more of a James Dean girl."

"So, you're into bad boys?"

She looked up at him, tugging slightly on his hand. "Not _only_ bad boys."

Tom squeezed a little on her fingers, giving her a half-smile. The theater had been more crowded than he'd been expecting, and with families on either side of them during the matinee, he'd been reluctant to make a move. Besides, he'd learned Sasha was the kind of girl who needed popcorn and a drink during a movie, so her hands had been occupied.

About halfway through, he'd stretched his arm across the back of her seat, dangling his hand on her shoulder. When she'd leaned towards him, he'd found her skin with his fingers, the tips sliding up from her collarbone to the sensitive skin beneath her ear and back to her shoulder. Slow, inexorable strokes up and down, until she'd shivered and sighed and captured his hand to press a quick kiss to his palm.

It had been enough for the moment.

It was Sunday, and the streets of Newport were crowded with more than tourists. Even with the autumn's chill, it seemed that the whole of the city had turned out looking for some sunshine in the last few weeks before the snows came. At the moment, the sun was high and strong in the cloudless sky, and Tom and Sasha hadn't even needed to button their coats.

"Did you like it?"

Sasha pretended to consider, scrunching up her nose. "Well, it was certainly no 'Top Gun'."

"Smart aleck."

"But I liked it." She skirted a cafe table that was sticking out into the walkway, bumping into him. "It's Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. How could I not?"

Tom raised a brow. "Those older movies aren't for everyone."

"That's because they're intelligent films. You have to think about things." Turning up her chin to look at him, she studied him for a moment. "Most people don't like thinking about things anymore. They want everything to be easy. Easy entertainment, easy education. Easy relationships."

"But aren't relationships supposed to be easy?" Tom made a thorough examination of her expression. "If they're right, I mean."

"Nothing's easy, Tom." Sasha shook her head. "Especially if it's worthwhile."

He honestly didn't know what to say to that, so he just kept walking, savoring the way her hand felt within his own, the way her body stayed just close enough to his that they periodically came into full contact. Sometimes, there wasn't even a reason - she just stepped into him, as if drawn by a magnet.

He didn't mind.

They stopped at an intersection, and Tom angled a look in her direction. "So, are you hungry for some lunch?"

She grinned. "We just finished off a large bag of popcorn. And you're still hungry?"

"Correction." The light had changed, so he pulled her along with him into the crosswalk. "You finished off a large bag of popcorn. I only helped a little."

She had the grace to look sheepish about that. "I can't help it. I'm kind of a popcorn fiend."

"Kind of?"

"Okay. A huge popcorn fiend." She moved closer to him to avoid hitting a woman with a stroller walking the opposite way. "Although, you know what I miss?"

"What?"

"Japanese rice crackers."

Tom must have looked as confused as he was, because she launched into a detailed response.

"In Japan, they have these little rice crackers. They're called arare, and they come in various shapes and textures. They're glazed with this salty soy sauce stuff, and they're totally addictive."

"They are, huh?"

"Totally." She gestured with her free hand. "We used to eat popcorn mixed with arare and M&Ms. It was to die for. It took me a long time to even like popcorn the normal way once I got back to the States."

Tom thought about that for a moment. "I guess you could say that I'm a purist. Popcorn should have butter and salt on it. That's it."

"A purist, huh?" Sasha's brows rose. "I can see that about you."

Tom stopped, pulling her to a halt next to him. "You can, can you?"

"From the moment we met." She stepped closer to allow a group of tourists to pass. "I could tell that you were a traditionalist."

He wasn't quite sure how to take that pronouncement. Narrowing his eyes, he looked down at her. "How so?"

"Come on, Tom." She twisted her hand slightly in his, looking up at him from under her lashes. "You know what I mean. You're old school."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Shaking her head, she reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers trailing down his jaw. "Nothing at all. It's just that most guys today aren't like that."

"How are they?"

"Guys today?" She sighed, finding the correct words. "They're so busy being cool that they don't remember what it means to be men. They're afraid of making commitments, because it means that they'd have to stop playing around and decide to be something."

Tom frowned down at her. "I can be cool."

"Really? That was your takeaway?" Sasha leaned into him, resting her forehead on his sternum as she breathed out a giggle. "I'm really not making myself understood."

"Well, then, try again."

Her iced blue gaze took in his expression, his face, the way he was holding his body. "You ask me what I want to do. You open doors for me and help me on with my coat. You always walk on the outside of the sidewalk, near the street."

Shrugging a little, he shoved his free hand into his pocket. "That's just being nice, isn't it?"

"It's being a gentleman. Like in that movie we watched. You're like Cary Grant."

"Those are some big shoes to fill." Tom scrubbed at his chin with his palm. "Cary Grant's a legend."

"Well, most men today are like these little children who think that the world revolves around them. You're not."

"How do you know? I might be a big baby. All of this suavity that I'm pulling off might just be a giant facade."

"I'd know." She tilted up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Believe me."

"Because you're so wise and world-weary?" He smiled down at her. "Wasn't it just a few days ago that you were calling me a slob?"

She considered, using her free hand to spread the open panel of his coat wide. "Well, you've cleaned up since then." Indicating the plaid of his shirt with her index finger, she sent him a knowing sort of look. "You were a slob a few days ago, and today, you're a lumberjack."

"Brat." But he was laughing as he said it. Capturing her close with a hand around her lower back, he pulled her in for a quick, hard kiss. "I'm not a lumberjack."

"No, you're not." She returned his kiss and then stepped away. "But then, I don't know what you really are, so I've had to leave certain things to my own sordid imagination."

They'd come to the end of the shopping district. The sidewalk intersected with a smaller road -the leftward fork led down a rise towards the ocean, and veering right lead straight back into town. Tom had intended to head back up into Newport for a leisurely late lunch. Sasha, however, had other plans, turning left and making her way down the narrow path towards the sea.

He shrugged out of his coat, folding it carefully and draping it over his right arm before trailing after her. Purposefully, he lagged behind a little and followed in Sasha's wake, taking the opportunity to simply watch her. She was graceful, moving with a deliberate sort of awareness that attested to her seemingly innate confidence. Long legs, lithe frame, and that hair that appeared to have a life of its own - flowing over her shoulders and down her back like ebony silk. The afternoon sun glinted off her reddish highlights, nearly making it glow. Tom wanted to gather it up in his hands just to see if it would warm them.

Damn, she was beautiful. She was fascinating. She was maddening. She'd shoved a napkin in his pocket and then had gone about systematically insinuating herself into his entire being as if she'd always belonged there.

And maybe she did. Aristophanes had believed in soul mates, theorizing that Zeus himself had split the human form into two separate people, fearing that the two right people unified could challenge the supremacy of even deity. He'd scattered them across time and space, lessening the possibility that the two soulmates would find their way back together.

Tom didn't know about soulmates, but he did know that he'd never felt this kind of connection with anyone else. He'd never been at once amused and invigorated and emboldened by a single human being. Never craved someone's company. Never yearned to feel them, to hear them, to touch them. He'd never needed anyone the way he needed Sasha.

And he didn't even know her last name.

His longer strides had brought him alongside her, and, without hesitation, she reached out and secured his hand in hers, sending her thumb along the length of his index finger with a slow, easy caress. She led the way, hopping over the curb and off the main road to follow a narrow footpath that angled sharply down and towards the ocean. On one side, the ocean lapped gently at the smooth stones, while on their other, a man-made sea wall loomed. Between the wall and the water, around fifty feet of rocky beach was bathed in the warm light of the afternoon.

Suddenly she released his hand and hurried down the beach until she came to an odd assortment of statues of some sort just at the base of the sea wall. Tom was a few yards away before he realized that they were stones - stacked with precarious balance one on top of the other. Dozens of them, of varying heights and shapes. Some of them were tall and skinny, individual stones piled high. Others were more complicated structures. He stopped a few feet from the outermost ring of pillars, watching his companion.

She'd crouched down, searching the rocky ground for just the right stone. Carefully, she approached a specific stack, considering the creation intensely before reaching out and balancing the rock atop it. Tom found himself holding his breath as she adjusted the placement until she was satisfied, then stood and slowly backed away. The stack didn't even wobble.

The look on her face was priceless - exultant triumph. Turning to him, she gestured towards the beach museum with a bright smile. "Want to try?"

"What is this place?"

She shrugged. "I don't know who started it, or why. One day I was exploring and happened to come down here and stumbled across it. I've been down here several times, since, but I've never seen anyone else here. You can't even see this area from the park up there."

Tom glanced upwards, towards where she'd pointed. The sea wall was made of large boulders cemented in place to form a tall barrier. At the very top, decorative pylons had been erected as a fence of sorts, marching along the edge to prevent accidental falls. He could hear people and traffic faintly above the lull of the waves. From where he was standing, Tom couldn't see anything more of the passers-by then the vague impressions of their heads and shoulders. Turning, he leaned back against the wall. "Interesting."

"That one's mine." She wiped some sand off her hands and then made her way over closer to where Tom was standing. "I started it. Each time I come down here, I add a new stone."

"Why?"

The elusive dimple appeared in her cheek as she grinned widely. "Why not?"

She traipsed away from him again, making a wide circle of the display, examining each individual stack. Tom followed her with his eyes, allowing himself another quiet opportunity to claim some more memories. But suddenly, the thought of walking away tonight and leaving her behind sent a pang of regret through him, and he had to look away.

On a whim, he bent down, ignoring the complaints from his leg. Rifling around through the sand and stones, he searched until he'd found one that caught his eye. Wide and smooth, it was a creamy yellow color, with a streak of what appeared to be quartz running through the middle. As he turned it in his hand, the quartz caught the sunlight, and it gleamed. Something beautiful hiding within an object otherwise ordinary. Straightening, he looked over towards the stacked stone pillars, but then found himself dropping the stone into the pocket of his coat, instead.

Even in the short time that they'd been on the beach, the shadows had lengthened as the sun lowered in the sky. Tom smiled as he thought of navigation training, and how the stone sculptures could be used to determine latitude and longitude, if necessary. He was fairly certain that Sasha wouldn't have been interested in that, however, so he merely watched as she picked her way through the stony sand, searching for something in particular.

After several moments, she found it. Bending, she snagged her prize and then turned back towards Tom, brushing at the stone with her fingertips. "Here, Tom. I found one for - "

She squealed, and then Tom felt the impact. Wet, and cold - slick liquid of some sort oozed down the back of his neck and over his shoulder, seeping through the fabric of his shirt and trickling down his arm. Something else – vaguely hard, yet pliable - had wedged itself between his back and the wall.

Pushing away from the concrete face of the sea wall, Tom tossed his coat to the ground, wrenching his body around to see what had hit him. Thick, viscous, creamy - he scowled towards where his feet had dented the sand to see a paper cup spilling the remainder of its contents onto the beach.

A milkshake. A plastic spoon had stuck itself into the sand, perfectly erect, next to the semi-squashed cup. It was as if it was taunting him. A bright red middle finger from the FreezyQueen.

"Son of a - " He swallowed the rest of the curse as he looked up towards the park above, but nobody had peered over the pylons to see to where their dessert had escaped. He swiped at his shoulder, at his neck and arm with his free hand, trying to dislodge the majority of the mess, but only managed to smear it around more. The trickling ice cream had made its way towards the waistband of his trousers, and he groaned as he tried to stop the flow by smooshing it into his shirt, instead.

Sasha had retrieved his coat, shaking the sand off it, and draping over her own arm. Moving around behind him, she surveyed the damage before sighing. "Well. That sucks."

"Really?" He couldn't quite keep the annoyance out of his tone.

"Just a little. " Sasha came back around so that she could look at him. Unbelievably, she was trying not to laugh. "Seriously though."

"Seriously?" Tom glowered at her. "You're on the verge of hysterics."

She bit her lip with her even white teeth, fighting the smile that had already made her eyes dance. "I'm not on the verge of hysterics."

"Damn it, Sasha." Tom wriggled a little as more ice cream made its way down his back. "This isn't funny."

Pressing her lips tightly together, she held up her thumb and forefinger in a near-pinch. "It's a little funny."

"Not even a little funny."

"Okay - you're right. It's not a little funny." And that's when she laughed in earnest, speaking between the giggles. "It's a _lot_ funny."

Tom reached out and grabbed his coat from her, wadding it in his fist as he repeated himself. "Not even a little."

He stalked down the beach towards the road that lead back to town, trying to ignore the gelatinous mass melting through his shirt and trickling down his skin. He tried to calculate exactly how far away his truck was - he'd left it in the guest lot of her hotel. They'd walked at least ten minutes to the theater, and then ten or so more to the beach. If he hurried, he could get home, change, and then come back to get her for dinner.

If she'd stop laughing at him.

Her footsteps were quick as she jogged to catch up with him, taking advantage of the fact that he was moving more gingerly due to the sticky spill, and his still-healing leg. She didn't try to take his hand, this time, bumping him deliberately with her shoulder, instead.

"Come on, Tom." She'd schooled her voice into some semblance of normalcy. "What are the odds?"

"Of what?" He hazarded a look at her, mollified somewhat that she'd stopped giggling, at least. "That I'd be dive-bombed by a chocolate malt?"

There went those teeth again, chewing on her bottom lip. When she'd achieved a modicum of sincerity, she bumped him again. "You can't say it that way and not expect me to find the humor in it, Tom."

He took eighteen steps before he could answer her. "All I'm saying is that this is really, really gross."

"Has it all melted?"

"No." He slowed his pace a tad, loosening his death-grip on his coat. "It's still pretty solid down around my right armpit."

She snorted, instantly looking down at her feet, making the kinds of noises in her throat that one would make when trying not to acknowledge a fart at a funeral.

A side-long glance affirmed that she was laughing again, silently, her shoulders quivering beneath the fabric of her coat. What he could see of her cheek beneath the fall of her hair was both pink and glistening - as if she were -

"Are you laughing so hard that you're crying?"

To her credit, she was honest. Nodding, she swiped at her cheeks with her fingertips, taking deep breaths that really didn't seem to be helping her calm down.

"That's nice." More sarcasm. He couldn't help it. He stopped short, glaring off across the rooftops at the glow from the late afternoon sun. The milkshake had, indeed, made its way down into his pants, and was tickling at places where a milkshake had absolutely no business being. She was right - what were the odds?

Unbelievable. That this should happen on this day, at this time, with this woman. When their time together was limited already. He'd have to drive back to his apartment, shower and change, and then come back -

"My hotel is right over there." She'd gained control over her features. "I probably have some clothes you can wear. You can take a shower and get changed, and we'll hardly miss a moment."

So, she'd been thinking about it, too. Somehow, that made a difference.

-OOOOOOOO-

He'd never been further than the front desk, so exiting the elevators and walking towards an actual door felt like he'd entered the Inner Sanctum. She'd reached into her back pocket and withdrawn a key attached to a large plastic diamond imprinted with her room number. With a practiced motion, she opened the door, then stepped inside, holding it wide for Tom to pass through, as well. It closed quietly on its own, locking itself with a neat 'snick'.

She'd been living here for a while. Comfortably, by the look of things. It was larger than it had appeared to be - a suite rather than a simple room. Just past the entryway and its small coat closet, a kitchenette opened up to his right. Beyond the counter and attached breakfast bar, a decent-sized living room held a few chairs, a small sofa, and a TV on a bureau. To his left, a short hallway led to the bedroom. Through the open door he could see the bed - perfectly made, pillows arranged against an old-fashioned wooden headboard.

He looked away nearly immediately.

She'd busied herself turning on lights, picking up the random objects that the cleaning staff had deemed too personal to rearrange. Shoving it all onto the small table next to the sofa, she turned to look at him.

"Bathroom is across from the bedroom. Go on in there and get cleaned up, and I'll find something for you to wear in the meantime."

Tom looked around, and found a chair near the bar. He deposited his coat on the chair, and then reached into his pocket for his wallet and keys, tucking them into the folds of his coat.

She'd watched him until he was finished, and then took a few steps towards the hallway, pointing into the bathroom. "There should be plenty of towels, and I've got real soap and stuff in there. Better than the hotel freebies. Use whatever you'd like."

"Thank you." He hesitated, out of his element and intensely aware of the oddness of the situation. Yet, despite his discomfort, he found himself smiling. "You realize that this is a horrific cliché."

She leaned on the wall next to the bathroom door, a question curving the corner of her mouth. "How so?"

"This is like the plot of every bad porn movie ever made." He mirrored her pose, tilting forward so that his shoulder was wedged against the doorframe. "The only thing it's lacking is my pizza delivery uniform and an extra large supreme."

She winked, grinning. "Well, a girl can always hope."

As he shut the door, he couldn't help but laugh.

It took longer to deal with his soggy clothing than to bathe. He'd undressed in the shower, using the running water to rinse the worst of the ice cream mess out of his clothing. Wringing the water out, he'd then piled them in the bathroom sink while he expunged the stickiness from his body. She'd been right - her soaps were better than the cheap hotel stuff. Not too flowery, either. No wonder she always smelled so damned good. Turning the water off, he grabbed a towel from the racks above the toilet, making quick work of drying off his body and hair. With an expert twist and a tug, he secured the towel around his waist and then spent a few minutes draping his clothes to drip-dry over the curtain rod.

When he opened the door, she was standing near the dresser across from her bed, rifling through the bottom-most drawer.

She'd shrugged out of her jacket, and taken off the sweater she'd been wearing, too. Barefoot, now, she looked completely at home in her jeans and a plain white t-shirt, rummaging through what appeared to be a decent supply of men's clothes. It took two steps for him to be standing in the bedroom doorway, but Tom didn't venture any further. Too intimate, somehow, with him wearing only the towel and her with her lovely, perfectly arched feet nearly lost in the deep nap of the fine hotel carpeting.

"You're taller than he is, but these should work." She'd noticed him, apparently. Straightening, she shook out a pair of trousers and a men's button-down shirt. "Although you might have to Michael Jackson it a little."

Tom smiled at the reference, then watched as she shut the drawer with a practiced move of her foot. She'd barely noticed him, concentrating on the clothing in her hands, on smoothing out the wrinkles. Apparently satisfied, she extended the hand holding the apparel, turning to face him.

"Good Lord."

Tom immediately took a step backward. "I'm sorry. There wasn't a robe."

"No." She frowned, her attention shifting between his face and his knees. "It's not that - I mean it is, kind of. It's just - "

He'd forgotten. He was used to the angry red scars by now, by the unnaturally smooth tissue left on his lower calf by the burning fuel that had seared his skin. He hadn't even thought about how disturbing it would be to see the remnants of his injury, the ugly evidence of the pain he'd endured and survived. He couldn't imagine viewing it as someone completely unused to experiencing the true cost of war.

He felt color rise in his cheeks, heat making its way up his throat and towards his ears. Her expression had shifted - from blithe familiarity to something different. He couldn't quite interpret it, but he instantly felt shame slither its way down his spine.

Pity - sympathy - charity. Condolences terrified him. Pain was weakness - and he'd been fighting hard to rid himself of the instability, the aches, and the stiffness that had cost him his pride. For this woman to feel sorry for him -

"Don't worry about it." He clenched his jaw, reaching out for the clothing in her hands. "Let me get dressed and then I can go. I'll send the clothes back to you."

But just as quickly as her expression had changed, she'd recovered. Her long legs made short work of the space between them, and she took up the spot on the door frame that he'd vacated in his retreat back into the hallway.

"Don't be such a girl." Sasha handed him the pants and shirt. "From all your complaining about the injury, I was expecting a peg leg or something. Not some wimpy little scar."

The clothing hung from her fingertips in the shadowed space between them, but Tom wasn't looking at it. He was looking at her, at the knowing glint harbored in the depths of her cerulean eyes. _She knew_. She knew what it had cost him. She could somehow guess what he'd gone through, and sensed what it would have done to him to be pitied. Never in his life had anyone been so aware of him as a man - nor as a human. Only _she_ had ever made the effort.

A new heat pooled within him, settling in his core before venturing upwards, towards his heart. He didn't deserve this from her, and truly hadn't realized how much he'd needed for someone to accept him and know him without ceremony or fanfare.

But if he stood here in this towel, allowing himself to dwell on it any longer, he was going to embarrass them both.

He reached out and gasped the clothes, somewhat surprised when she didn't let go. Tugging gently, he pulled her towards him, until she was a breath away. Sasha didn't pull back, didn't make any move to escape him. Instead, her entire focus was on his mouth, and then her free hand came up to rest on his chest, smoothing lightly across the dusting of hair there, as if it fascinated her.

She was close. Close enough so that he could dip down and press his mouth to hers, so that he could tangle his fingers in the hair at her temple as he tasted her. Somehow, his resolve had been lost in the touch and the feel and the wonder of her, in the realization that she would know that he wouldn't want to be pitied. That even after only four days, she could know him that well. The borrowed clothing fell to the floor as their hands reached for each other instead, as they slid and explored and kneaded, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her entire body against his. Tom growled a little as she tasted him back, as she sent her fingers through the damp curls at his nape, pulling him impossibly closer.

A thick 'clunk' brought him out of the madness for a moment. They'd hit the wall behind her, rattling the sconce just to their left. Breathless, heart pounding, he grinned down at her. "Like I said. This is a total cliche."

She returned his smile - brilliantly - that one smooth cheek dimpling deep. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll dig up a uniform of some sort and I can order a pizza."

"Later." Tom's hands had made their way towards her perfect little derrière. Digging his fingers into the denim of her jeans, he hefted her up, ridiculously pleased when her legs made their way around his waist. "That's not what I'm hungry for at the moment."

"Thank heaven." She'd already buried her face in neck, teasing gently on the sensitive skin just below his ear, her breath and hands hot against his skin. "Becuse I just ate a whole bag of popcorn."

-OOOOOOO-

He'd never been so grateful for Lugo Bermudez in his life.

The sun had set, but they'd missed it. Tom had woken up to darkness, to her head resting on his outstretched arm, and their legs tangled under the down comforter. She sighed rather than talked in her sleep, he'd discovered. And she slept cold, following his warmth when he'd rolled away to check the time and discard the wrapper. He'd been awake for a while, now, simply watching her, committing each and every bit of her to memory.

Wishing he didn't have to.

Her hand stiffened and then relaxed on his ribcage, and she nestled even closer to him, pressing a sleepy kiss to the inner skin of his bicep before her eyes drowsed open.

Her slow smile was bright, even through the dark. "You're still here."

"So far." He couldn't help it - he had to keep something real. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No." She studied him for a while, her eyes making a slow appraisal of what was visible above the comforter. She brought her hand up to tousle his hair. "Who knew that you were hiding such amazing curl?"

"You didn't have any gel or anything." He grimaced a little. "It always does this without something heavy-duty to tame it down."

"I like it." She shoved her own hair back over her bare shoulder. "It's cute."

"Cute."

"Well, the rest of you is all cut and polished, so something has to make you more human, right?"

"I'm human, Sasha."

"Not according to this pectoral muscle." She traced along the indicated body part before venturing lower. "Or this mighty well-defined six pack."

He caught at her hand and raised it, breathing a kiss on her palm. "Cut it out, or you'll never get any dinner."

Her slow grin was, quite possibly, the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. "That might be the point, Tom Chandler."

"Really."

"Unless you'd rather have a pizza." She took up where she'd left off with her hand on his abdomen. "Or maybe just a milkshake?"

Despite himself, he smiled. "Has anyone ever told you that you're impossible?"

"Nobody. Ever. Not once in all my life." She was mocking him, which he was completely okay with.

Maybe Zeus had been right, he thought. Shifting, he pulled his arm free, rolling her onto her back. Balancing on his elbow, he leaned over her, smoothing her hair back, trailing his fingertips along her cheek, her chin, tugging gently at her bottom lip before hovering a kiss there. His hand elicited another shiver from her, and she sighed against him. Smiling against her lips, he pressed her back into the softness of the bedding, his entire being caught up in the pull of the moment, and of the miracle of this woman welcoming him home.

Zeus had been right. There was power here, in this perfection of souls coming together. In the sensation and the satisfaction and the sharing. And Tom's last thought before he succumbed again to the woman rising up against him was that it was sad that they'd been separated in the first place.

But it was truly a tragedy that it had to happen again.

-OOOOOO-

She was still asleep, on her back this time, her hair flowing like spilled ink over her pillow.

Tom's clothes had dried enough that he'd just put them back on. A little crunchy in spots, but he was just going home for another shower, anyway. And to shave, tame his hair, put on his uniform and meet his class at the College. He had a full day ahead. Exciting things.

Still, he felt empty.

Sated, completely satisfied - reeling from the hours he'd spent with Sasha - his body heavy with completion.

But hollow, nevertheless.

She hadn't even stirred as he'd picked up the clothing they'd forgotten in the hallway. He'd folded it and stacked it neatly on the dresser, next to her similarly discarded jeans and t-shirt. His wallet had ended up on the bedside table, open. Absently, he lifted it and flipped it shut, shoving it back into his jeans pocket.

And now, his coat dangling from one fist, he only had to leave.

 _Only_.

Sasha sighed a little in her sleep, and he couldn't help but appreciate the way the light that he'd turned on in the hallway made her skin glow. He could still feel its softness beneath his fingertips, the strength of her body against his own. He'd explored every inch of her the night before and well into the morning, but he knew that it would take an entire lifetime to truly know Sasha.

But he didn't have a lifetime. His time was already up.

He hurt - everywhere - body and soul

A year ago, he'd survived his helicopter being blown out of the sky. He'd dragged two dead brothers out of the wreckage, crawling through the dirt and flames and spilled fuel that had seeped into the cuts and scrapes and wreaked havoc on his systems. He'd fought back from the surgeries, and the infections, and against the effects of the pain medications.

He'd been to hell and back. But he'd rather do all of it again than walk away from this woman. He ached to crawl back into that bed and lose himself again, because in doing so, it seemed as if he'd finally come home. As if he'd finally found something to fight for. And standing here, getting ready to leave her behind was horrifically wrong. It felt like his throat was closing off, as if his blood had suddenly turned to lead, as if he'd been punched in the gut one too many times and he could no longer breathe.

He blinked back the heat that had risen in his eyes, sending his tongue across lips that were still heavy from her touch. Clenching his teeth, he shrugged into his coat, reaching into his pocket to get his keys.

His fingertips found something smooth, instead. Puzzled, he pulled it out, belatedly recognizing the stone he'd found at the beach. Turning it in his hand, he felt the cool surface, the slight indentation of the single line of quartz running through it. It was heavier than he'd first realized, and larger - only just slightly smaller than his palm.

It took a step for him to return to the side of the bed, and only a moment for him to bend down and place the stone where his wallet had been throughout the night. He didn't even know what it meant, only that she'd understand.

"Tom?"

She'd woken again, turning amidst the warm tumble of sheets and comforter to face him.

"It's time." It was all he could say without making an abject fool of himself. Without begging her to reconsider her limits. "I've got to go."

"I know." She tucked her hand under her chin, like a child. Or as if she were trying to keep her own feelings at bay. Her eyes seemed haunted, and a crinkle had formed above her nose. "I know."

"It's been - " He wanted to touch her, but didn't trust himself to. Instead, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled a half-step backwards. "Well, you know."

She nodded rather than answering, capturing his gaze. "Tom?"

"Yes, Sasha?"

"No regrets."

But he was full of them. Regrets coursed through his system like a disease, sending pain everywhere. And there was that damned heat behind his eyes again, matching the odd glisten in hers. He took another step back, throwing her a mock salute.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong. This was so damned wrong._

But he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't debase himself or what they'd shared. He'd take these days and live off of them for the next years, until he could remember what it had been like - what he had been like - before he'd ever approached this amazing, irascible, addictive woman. Before she'd shoved her number into his pocket and ordered him to call her. Before he'd found everything he'd never known that he wanted or needed.

So, he lied, flashing her a cocky smile and a jauntily raised brow. _He lied._ "No regrets."

And as he turned and left her room, he knew that the healing time from this injury would be longer than his last.

Cutting Sasha out of his soul was going to leave a hell of a scar.


	7. Lost and Found

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Lost and Found**_

 _I am truly grateful for everyone who is following this story, and for the reviews. I usually try to answer each review individually, but my life is fairly chaotic right now, and so whatever time I have for fanfic has been used actually writing it. But I do want you all to know that I appreciate your support._

 _Thank you!_

 _ **-OOOOOOOO-**_

There hadn't been any point in trying to get any sleep once he got home.

Tom had wandered around for a bit after closing his apartment door behind him. He'd tidied up, gathered up the books he'd need for the day, and changed into some sweats and a t-shirt so that he could throw his soiled clothing into the tiny washing machine in the kitchen. Now, he sat watching the sun's slow rise in the East, trying to remember all the girls he'd walked away from. It wasn't a long, or a particularly distinguished list. Not counting the ones who hadn't lasted more than a couple of dates, there had been seven.

Don Juan, he was not.

He didn't quite know what to make about the fact that he didn't remember names as much as he did faces and circumstances. There had been a cute green-eyed blond he'd met just after Basic Training. That relationship had lasted until he'd sailed out on his first destroyer. During his second semester of college, he'd spent time with a redhead with ice-blue eyes. She'd been a math major, intent on becoming an accountant. He'd lost interest over Spring Break and cut ties as soon as school had started up again. He focused better when he wasn't juggling a relationship, too, so invariably, the job had won.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was just how it was.

He honestly couldn't remember actually being sorry any of his relationships had ended. They'd just reached a natural ending point, so he'd left. No tears, no fighting, no recriminations. He had no idea whatsoever whether the girls had even been angry with him.

They'd probably forgotten him as quickly as he had them.

He'd chosen this apartment for the view. It wasn't a posh place - barely livable to be honest. But the unit he'd requested was on the top floor and had a terrace. The first thing he'd bought was a reclining lawn chair he'd noticed in the garden department of the local big box store. Eventually, he'd find a cheap table to go next to it. For now, the packaging crate he'd been using would have to suffice.

Tom had brought his breakfast out to eat in the brisk morning air. He'd finished about half the cereal in his dish before he'd set it aside. Whether he'd lost his appetite or lost interest in eating, he couldn't tell. It was a toss-up.

There was only thing he wanted right now, and it wasn't cereal. And sitting in the cold on the patio only reminded him of things he'd lost - sending his mind hurtling back to memories of cold hands and cold noses and the way her body had fitted itself so perfectly to his as he'd kissed her on the pier.

If he'd imagined dismissing Sasha like he'd left the others behind, he had been fooling himself. He could no longer simply allow her to fade from memory than he could wish the scars away from his leg. But wallowing in misery wouldn't help, either. He'd have to find some way to fill the emptiness that he couldn't have imagined that he'd feel. Will power. Self-control. Prayer, maybe. Something to keep him from brooding on what he'd allowed to slip away.

Then a change in the breeze surrounded him with her smell, and he realized that it was her soap still clinging to his skin and hair assailing his senses. And something else - something deeper - something indefinably Sasha that still lingered on his hands and skin. He'd probably imagined it, but it still made him ache. Squeezing his eyes shut, he covered his face with his hand, steeling himself against the pain.

-OOOOOOOO-

"So, what have you been doing lately?"

It took Tom a moment to refocus. He lay flat on his stomach on the massage table, trying not to grimace as Jackson worked over his hamstring. He hated this part of physical therapy. As much as he knew it was necessary, it always seemed to add more pain than it alleviated. Jackson would probably tell him that pain was weakness leaving the body or some such crap. But then, Jackson wasn't like normal people.

Tom had been more than a little leery of Jackson Hunt when they'd first met, accustomed as he'd been to military doctors and care workers, strict in their dress and behavior. Jackson was strict in neither of those things, seeming more like a displaced surfer than a licensed medical professional. Tall and lanky, he had wild, shoulder-length hair that couldn't decide whether it was brown or blond, an earring in one ear, with a matching one through his right eyebrow, and the tattoos - well, they were everywhere. But Tom couldn't quibble with the results, nor with the immediate sense of familiarity he'd had with the guy. They were probably about the same age, and just as focused on their own - albeit very different - careers. Regardless what Jackson did in his spare time - while he was being the professional, he knew exactly how to get Tom back into his own game.

As for the question itself, Tom hesitated briefly before answering. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Jackson dug in as he spoke, ignoring Tom's sharp inhale as pain shot towards his hip. "You've got more elasticity today than you did the last time you were here. Have you started yoga like I suggested?"

Luckily, Jackson couldn't see Tom roll his eyes. "No yoga. I've just been walking more. Exploring the city and getting around campus."

"Hm." The therapist made his way back down to Tom's foot, then grabbed his patient by the ankle and gently pushed his heel towards his behind. "Because I'm getting around fifteen percent more range on this leg today than I did last week, even though you've missed an appointment in the meantime."

He'd almost missed today's appointment, too. It was only his watch beeping that had reminded him that he was already supposed to be at the clinic. He'd arrived nearly a half an hour late, and then had to wait for Jackson to finish up with another, more punctual, client before his turn had come. Sitting in the waiting room, he'd tried to be proactive by reviewing the notes he'd made for his first presentation to his class, but he'd finally given up when visions of the night before had welled up in his brain - skin and sighs and softness - the way she'd smiled when he'd discovered that she was ticklish behind her left knee. A specific sound she'd made as he'd kissed his way down her hip.

 _Walk away_. He'd chided himself, glaring down at the papers in his hands. _Damn it, walk away._

"Keep going like this, buddy, and you'll be in range in no time."

Jackson had obviously been reviewing Tom's file again. Ninety-five percent had been the benchmark set by Medical for Tom's return to active duty. Nobody in Newport had been particularly optimistic that it would happen. Jackson had apparently taken it as a challenge.

"Can you feel that?" Jackson sputtered out chortle. "That's the feeling of progress, my man."

Tom _could_ feel it. The muscles and tendons were protesting, but not nearly as much as they had before. "I did a little running a few days ago. Some shallow climbing yesterday, but that's pretty much it. Mostly just walking."

Just walking. Except for the hours he'd spent the night before _not_ just walking.

Swallowing a groan, he settled his forehead back on the table, trying _again_ to stop thinking about her. Trying to forget how easily she'd wound herself around him in the hallway, how her hands had felt in his hair, her teeth on his ear. He hadn't even been thinking about his injury when he'd lifted her, pushing her back against the wall while he'd made a long, slow exploration of her mouth. He'd been oblivious to the twinges of pain her added weight had caused. All that had mattered was feeling whole again, when he'd been wandering for so long knowing that something crucial was missing.

If he were to be truly honest with himself, he wasn't even trying to forget the glory that they'd shared.

He wanted to purge the knowledge of what he'd lost.

Poking Tom in the back. Jackson's voice drew him back back again with a tone of leery skepticism. "Running?"

Tom had to unclench his jaw to answer. "A little kid ran into a street. I went in after him."

"Hm." There went those thumbs again, making trenches on either side of Tom's calf. "You know? I think I saw that. Little brown-haired kid. At the park just across the street, right?"

"Maybe."

"He wanted his ball. Was kind of loud about it, too."

"Same kid."

"I was out getting Jen and me some coffee and I saw the whole thing. Didn't occur to me that it was you, though." He used his heel on Tom's calf for a beat before continuing. "Because I'd already warned you against doing too much, right?"

"I iced after." As if that would make any difference at all to Jackson.

It didn't. "I mean, I totally understand that you couldn't let that kid get hit by a car, but you've got to remember your limits, Tom." He bent Tom's leg back again, pressing it just a tiny bit further than he had before.

Frowning down at the table, Tom ignored the discomfort. "Don't you have a coffee shop next door to this place?"

"'Joe's Joe'?" Jackson snorted a little. "Yeah, if you want pure, mean swill. Jen and I like 'Beadberry Brews' down at the other end of the park. It's at kiosk near the school down there."

"You'd walk that far just for coffee?"

"Dude." Jackson's voice communicated the fact that he was smiling. "Sometimes you've got to go the distance for quality, right?"

There was nothing Tom wanted to say to that, so he just nodded awkwardly against the table.

For a few more moments, Jackson worked out kinks, then spent a few minutes on the Achilles' tendon and the bottom of Tom's foot. "So, who was the girl?"

"The girl?"

"The one you were with. She had a baby or something, didn't she? You guys were over by the bus stop with a stroller?"

"That was the kid's mom."

"No - not the little one. I mean, obviously, that one was the kid's mom." He signaled he was done by giving Tom a little smack on the bottom of his foot. "The other one. The tall leggy one with the smoking body."

And Tom had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden rush of pain that flooded through him, forcing his body to relax before he could trust himself enough to answer. He flexed his foot back and forth a little, buying himself some time before wrenching himself upwards. Smoothly, he rolled himself to a sitting position. "Um - I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Jackson frowned, brows high. "She was one hot chick."

"She was." Tom conjured up a casual shrug. "But she was just a girl. She'd been helping the mom with something. I don't really know her at all."

"Should have got her number."

"I don't think she was from around here." Tom tried to sound dismissive. "She mentioned something about being from out of town."

"Still. She's quality, right?" Stepping backwards, the therapist leaned back against the treatment table opposite Tom's. "It's like good coffee. You've got to be willing to travel for the high end stuff."

It took Tom a moment to answer. "I guess. But even if I did have time, I don't have any way of contacting her."

"Bummer." Jackson shoved his hand through his already tousled hair, the action doing nothing to tame the beast.

"Yeah." Gingerly, Tom slid down off the table, the linoleum floor cold against his feet. Starting towards the ice station, he tried to ignore the bitterness that had settled deep in his gut, even as he knew that it might take a lifetime to feel normal again. "Yeah. It really is."

-OOOOOOO-

He'd put on his uniform in the bathroom of the clinic, then headed to the College. Parking had been difficult - he didn't have enough rank for a designated spot, so his truck had ended up on the outskirts of the lot, looming large between a tricked-out Saturn and a shiny new Toyota. If Jackson thought that walking was good for Tom's flexibility, then Tom figured that he just ought to be late every day.

Once in his office, Tom gathered up the books and papers he'd prepared following the marathon of meetings two days before. Stuffing them deep into his backpack, he made another quick scan of his desk, looking for anything he might have missed. He was more nervous than he thought he'd be, not knowing quite what to expect.

"Chandler!"

Startled, Tom pivoted abruptly towards the voice.

Commander Sheffield stood in the middle of the door frame, barely filling up the space. "Tommy!"

"Good Morning, Sir." Tom swung his backpack onto his shoulder.

"Morning, Son." Sheffield shuffled into the office, smiling broadly. "How are you feeling? Excited for your first day?"

Drumming up a smile, Tom tried to sound convincing. "All ready to go, Sir."

"Did you find the books we'd discussed?"

"I did." Tom nodded. "And I brought in a few more from home. Lieutenant Alexeev had some interesting things to add, and I believe that we'll be offering some real world, useful information to your recruits."

"Good. Good." Sheffield looked pleased, glancing between Tom's pack and Tom himself, his hands bracketed against his waist. "And you and Alexeev - "

Trying not to wince, Tom pasted on a benign expression. "We're okay."

"I know that he can be trying, but he was the only option we had at the moment."

"We'll be fine, Commander." Tom actually smiled. "I've never found a sailor I couldn't work with - officer or enlisted."

"Well, with Alexeev, you might have to work around him, rather than with him."

Tom raised a brow. "That's just semantics, isn't it?"

"True. I knew you'd get it." Sheffield swiped his hand across his face, taking another look around the office. "You've always been a smart one. Well, I'm glad to see you're settling in and ready to get to work, Chandler."

"Yes, Sir."

"Then I'll leave you to the rest of your preparations."

"Thank you."

Sheffield turned to go, but then paused and thrust his hands down into his pockets. His expression had turned speculative when he wheeled back around to face Tom. "Hey, Chandler."

"Yes, Sir?"

"How's that thesis coming along?"

Tom hadn't thought about that in more than a year. Not since he'd been called in for the stint in Kosovo. After that mission had gone FUBAR, he'd pretty much shelved thoughts of anything other than getting back on his feet. The incomplete Master's degree had quite literally been the last thing on his mind. "Honestly, I haven't done a thing. I've had other priorities lately."

"I did a little digging." The Commander narrowed an eye, rocking a little in his shiny shoes. "You've completed all your coursework. Straight As pretty much down the board. You submitted your topic of study for approval but then got called in for that mission before you could get to the actual writing part."

"Right."

"You've got six months here. Access to the College library and dozens of experts in your field. You'll be teaching six hours per week, plus some work here or there with the class on the range and in the strategic sessions." Sheffield raised a brow. "You might want to get a little writing done."

Frowning, Tom readjusted the pack on his shoulder. "It just seemed a little late to be focusing on that kind of thing, Sir."

"You're on track to become a Captain, son." Sheffield's smile was kind, but insistent. "It's never too late to lay the groundwork and firm up your qualifications. That thesis will open more doors for you. You might want to take the best advantage of your time here."

Tom watched as the Commander turned and strode towards the door, completely surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. He'd sort of assumed that his chance to complete his degree had come and gone, but apparently he'd been mistaken. Did he really want to take that task on at the moment?

Twisting his wrist, he glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. The lecture hall was directly above his office, just a matter of climbing a flight of stairs and turning a corner. It would take him a few minutes at the most to get there. Alexeev, being the senior instructor, was in charge of welcomes and introductions, as well as presenting the course outline. Sheffield would be there, as well, offering the basic goals for the recruit class, and the parameters required for their being granted a passing score. Tom and Lugo were expected to make an appearance for this first morning session, but Tom's actual solo instructional period wouldn't actually begin until after lunch.

He'd have three days a week to teach Russian strategy and key language skills in two-hour class sessions, while the other two days would be spent with Lugo and his armory minions out on the shooting ranges. The semester would last six months. Was that really long enough to write a thesis? He still had all of his research - somewhere. He could dig it out. It'd give him something to do other than worry about teaching and physical therapy.

And it would be something to do other than sulk. A way to fill days that suddenly loomed empty and boring. Something to fill his mind and days with other than - _her_.

Because so far into this whole 'leave her behind' thing, he was pretty much failing.

Sighing, he clenched his teeth, fighting against a new surge of memories and emotions that raged through him. Wandering hands, cool sheets, the rush of sensation as she'd welcomed him - as she'd made him feel invincible. Sasha had given him exultation when he'd known little but pain and struggle for the past year. And maybe it was that he hadn't had the opportunity to sleep with - or hell, even date - a woman since before Kosovo, but he couldn't ever remember being so completely consumed by anyone in his life. Driving away from that hotel had been excruciating. Like leaving a limb behind - something he'd actually been given the dubious honor of contemplating, at one point.

It occurred to him that he might actually miss Sasha more than he would have missed the leg.

It was quiet - the sounds outside his office had faded. Flicking a look at his wrist confirmed that he'd been standing there staring at nothing for nearly six minutes. He was going to be late after all. Well, hell.

Closing the office door behind him, he emerged into the tiny hall where they'd stowed the junior officers and teachers' assistants. From there, it was only a few turns towards the stair case and then a single flight up to the teaching halls. The deserted halls spoke to the fact that Tom, was, indeed, late to the class session. Muttering a curse under his breath, he opened the door only wide enough for him to enter and slid inside.

It was dark - the only light coming from the ubiquitous Exit signs and the Powerpoint presentation being displayed on the large screen pulled down at the front of the lecture hall. Alexeev was standing next to the screen with a large poking device of some sort, jabbing at the bulletpoints on the screen as he enumerated the expectations and requirements of the course.

Tom waited briefly for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before glancing around for a place to park himself until it was his turn. The lecture hall was moderately large, its seats laid out in a wide semicircular stadium setting. The single door at the back led wide, carpeted stairs that descended towards the lecture area, with openings every few steps to allow access to the aisles of seats. To Tom's right was a standing-well between the last bank of seats and the back wall of the lecture hall. The room's projection system had been set into the wall itself and was hidden behind a glass window. The glass glowed and faded each time Alexeev triggered the slide changes.

Through the darkness, Chandler could see the vague outlines of thirty or so students - far fewer bodies than the room would actually hold. Most had taken seats somewhere near the middle, with a few intrepid souls on the front two rows, and as many stragglers sitting nearer the back. Rather than disturb the class, Tom chose to merely stay where he was, leaning up against the wall in the back. Quietly, he shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and settled it on the floor next to him, then got as comfortable as possible on his wall. As little as he knew about Lieutenant Alexeev, he could extrapolate from past experience that the Powerpoint presentation wasn't likely to end any time soon.

Fourteen slides had come and gone before the door to Tom's left opened again. A figure came through, stopping next to Tom in the standing well. A quick look confirmed that the figure was more-than-vaguely familiar.

"Tommy." Lugo bent over, whispering into Chandler's ear. "Aren't you supposed to be down there with the other head honcho?"

"I got here late."

"Late?" Lugo frowned. "Since when are you ever late?"

"Since this morning. I had to park out in the south 40 and hoof it."

"The 'south 40'? What are you now, a farmer?" He crossed his arms across his chest. "Although, with that truck you drive, I can see how other people might think you are."

"My truck has character."

"It's a heap."

"To each his own." Tom smiled into the darkness. He liked his old Ford. He'd always had a weakness for American-made power. The thing sucked down the diesel like nobody's business, but it had never once let him down. "She starts right up every single time."

"Only because she's in love with you." Lugo raised a brow back at his friend. "Like every other female within sight of you."

Grunting a laugh, Tom shook his head in response, falling silent when a student near the back turned to peer behind him to see where the sound had come from. Chastened, he and Lugo simply stood there, not watching the slides cycling on the screen as much as pretending to.

A few minutes had passed before Lugo nudged Tom's shoulder. "Speaking of which. Do you still happen to have my lucky rubbers?"

Tom rolled his eyes, turning his head to frown at his friend. "Not now, Lugo."

"Not now because you don't have them, or because you do?" Lugo's whisper was lower than before, but just as persistent. "Because either way, there's a story, right?"

"I guess."

Lugo waited for Alexeev to go through two more slides before he tried again. "So, I'm guessing that you crashed and burned?"

Tom sighed, lifting a single shoulder. "Maybe."

"Then, you didn't crash and burn."

"Come on, Lugo." Tom glowered over at the other man. "Not here."

"You can't leave me hanging, Tommy."

"It doesn't matter what happened." Tom's voice was harsher than he'd intended for it to be, and he flickered a look back over to the nosy recruit on the back row before continuing. "It's over. She's gone."

"Of course it matters. And I want deets, man."

"I'm not going to give you details, Lugo." Tom sighed. "So you can stop asking."

"Damn." Shaking his head, Bermudez settled himself back against the wall again. "I guess that's what I get for loaning a guy my best prophylactics."

Tom couldn't help it. He grinned. "Loaning them to me? You want them back?"

"Only if they're in pristine, unused condition." Lugo's eyes were wide with mocking sincerity. "Which I'm hoping for your sake that they're not."

"I'll buy you some replacements."

Bermudez nodded. After a moment, he held out his hands like a guy describing the fish he'd caught. "Big ones. I need the big ones."

"Whatever." Tom actually laughed at that. "Now shut up. We're supposed to be paying attention."

He counted eight slides before Bermudez poked him again.

"So? Are you sure she's gone?"

"I'm sure it's over." Tom's smile faded. "I don't know if she's left town yet."

"That bites."

Looking down at his feet, he nodded. "Pretty much."

"She was one fine looking woman."

She was perfect. Intelligent and provocative and funny. She'd made him think, kept him on his toes, surprised him and felt achingly familiar, all at once. Sasha had perfectly matched him in every way - banter for banter, reference for reference, passion for passion. A few times during the night Tom had simply watched her as she'd slept, committing everything to memory - her feel, her smell, her weight where she'd collapsed against him. He didn't know anything specific about her, really. Home town, schooling, parentage, career - it was all a mystery. All he truly knew for certain was that being with her made him feel whole, and that was enough.

He must have looked despondent, because Lugo's expression suddenly turned serious. "You okay?"

"I will be."

"She must have really gotten under your skin."

Not to mention wriggling her way throughout the rest of him, as well. "You could say that."

"Damn." Shaking his head, Lugo sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry, man."

A flurry of activity down below caught Tom's attention, and he glanced at his watch to realize that the entire hour had passed. Alexeev had crossed quickly to the wall nearest the screen, flipping the switches that brought the lights back up. Commander Sheffield, who had apparently been sitting in a seat near the front, stood and moved over towards the podium.

"Lieutenant Alexeev has just given you the course outline for the entire semester. He'll be one of several instructors and mentors who will be imparting their wisdom and experience to this class. It would behoove each and every one of you to listen to them, and to absorb all of the tiniest details that they have to teach to you. You will not find officers or civilians anywhere else with this kind of first hand knowledge, so don't get cocky or arrogant, and maybe you'll leave here being able to navigate the crapstorms that are waiting for you out in the real world."

Pausing, the little man scanned the crowd, then rocked back on his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. "You are the future of this program. You will bring us the information that we need to keep this country safe. Your future cooperation with other intelligence groups will make a difference in this world. And all of this depends on you being a little bit _more_ than the other guy. More vigilant, more intelligent, more disciplined, and more bold. We are excited and proud to have you here at the War College. Please act in such a manner that we continue to feel that way."

Alexeev stepped forward when Sheffield ended his speech. "We've arranged a Meet and Greet with the other instructors and staff in Multipurpose Room B on the third floor. There will be coffee and pastries, as well as the opportunity for you to mingle and get to know each other a little better. Class for some of you will reconvene at 14:00 hours in this room, and for the other half, you'll join me and Lieutenant Bermudez on the range for some firing practice. You're dismissed until then."

The audience shifted all at once, closing notebooks, reaching for backpacks or satchels. They seemed to move en masse, shuffling out of their aisles and up the stairs towards the back door. They were like a school of eager young fish, in their khaki dress uniforms and perfect hair. Tom looked down towards his own shiny shoes, only to realize that he must not have closed his backpack completely, because the main compartment had opened at some point, spilling his handouts all over the floor.

Swearing softly under his breath, he braced himself for pain and crouched down, gathering the papers back into a pile and reinserting them into his pack. Zipping it up, he gave himself another moment before hefting himself back upright - grimacing towards the wall when his leg revolted against the movement. Maybe he'd have to try that whole yoga thing, after all. Damn.

Standing, he turned to see Lugo smiling as Sheffield climbed the stairs towards them. Alexeev was still near the podium, closing down his computer and disconnecting cords. The rest of the class had disappeared into the hall, and were, by the sounds of things, already climbing the stairs towards the Meet and Greet.

"They're like insects. Mention a cruller, and they migrate towards it." The Commander shook Lugo's hand, then reached for Tom's. "I was expecting you to be up there prattling on with Alexeev."

"I got here a little late, Sir. The presentation had already started, and I didn't want to interrupt." Tom settled his backpack on his shoulder. "I apologize."

"Was it the stairs, or the thesis talk?"

Tom grinned. "A little of both, maybe."

"Well, I'm sure it was a one-time deal, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

As soon as Sheffield started walking, Tom and Bermudez fell into step alongside him. They'd made it out the door and halfway to the stairs before he spoke again. "Anyway. There are a few of the recruits that I'd like for you to meet in particular, Tom. And one that you'll love, Lugo. She's a crack shot. The Academy had her highly recommended for sniper training, but her language skills are off the charts and so she's been retained here for intelligence work."

"I wasn't aware that Naval Intelligence required its assets to be qualified marksmen, Sir." Lugo had made it to the landing first, pausing and waiting for the other two to catch up. "Am I supposed to be training her for that purpose?"

"Just for fun, Bermudez." Sheffield laughed. "She'll probably need the outlet anyway. She's a little high-strung."

"You mentioned something about the war games, Sir." Halfway up the second flight, Tom looked over at the Commander. "What's the focus of those with this group?"

"Mostly practice in recon and information gathering." Sheffield waved off the question. "We can talk about that later. Have you decided about the Master's?"

Tom smiled down at the stairs. "I think I'll do it. Might as well."

"Indeed. Good choice. You won't regret it, Tom." Steering them towards the Multipurpose Room, Sheffield waited for Tom to open the door before entering the crowd. "Go get yourselves a coffee or something. I'll find the recruits I've been telling you about."

And with that, the little man disappeared into the crowd.

"You thirsty?" Lugo had already angled towards the bank of insulated dispensers lined up on a table towards the northern side of the room. "Want a donut?"

"Not really." Tom shook his head. "But thanks. You go ahead."

Lugo gave him a good natured whack on his shoulder, and then headed towards the grub. Tom watched him go, then turned back to survey the crowd. Young, eager, a little cocky. The group reminded Tom of himself a few years back, before he'd learned what he'd learned and done what he'd done. Near-death experiences tended to make one decidedly less arrogant. And Tom had discovered that well-placed humility went a long way in making a decent officer.

They'd learn - hopefully not as painfully as he'd had to.

"Chandler!"

Sheffield must have found his Ensigns. Turning towards the instantly recognizable voice, he pasted on a smile and tried to look commanding.

"Lieutenant Chandler." The little man stopped near Tom, dragging a recruit in his wake. Motioning her forward, he beamed at Tom, as if he were presenting his own child to the President. "Tom, this is Ensign Sasha Tierney."

Sasha.

 _Damn. Damn. Damn it all._

It hadn't even been six hours since he'd left her bed. Six hours since he'd smoothed his palm down her satin skin. Since he'd buried his face against her neck and felt her pulse beat with the tip of his tongue. He could still feel her breath against his ear, her fingertips trailing up his back - the rhythm - the sighs - the back of her heel against his calf. Damn, damn, damn.

 _Damn it all straight to Hell._

"Lieutenant Chandler." Her eyes were huge - stunned, although her expression remained carefully placid. A hint of color had already started to creep up above her perfectly starched collar, though, indications that she was as shocked as he.

"Ensign Tierney." Tom didn't have the self-control necessary to shake her hand. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, instead. "I hear you're quite the linguist."

"I've heard the same about you, Lieutenant."

"Not just linguistics, Tierney." Sheffield chortled. "Chandler here can teach you all about foreign affairs with Russia, including the intricacies of its relations with China and her allies. You'd be wise to pay attention to him."

"Yes, Sir." Sasha nodded. "You can be sure I will."

"And Sasha here isn't just a whiz at languages, Tom. She's also a hell of a shot and excels in decrypting code."

"Wow." Lame. Tom mentally smacked himself for the inane response. "That's impressive."

Pausing, the older man raised up on his tip-toes to peer through the crowd. "Hold on - I see Frandsen and Jacobs. Stay here. I'll bring them over." With that, he was gone.

Tom clenched his jaw against the emotions wreaking havoc in his core. He was hot all over, his body practically quivering, his palms itching. Damn it, he thought he'd left her behind. He thought he'd be spending the next six months gradually purging her from his system. Instead, here she was, not only on campus, but under his purview as a student in his class. He was, for all intents and purposes, her directly superior officer.

He'd read the manual. What they'd shared the night before would not be looked on kindly.

The color had made it to her cheeks, now, and she was breathing shallowly, no doubt in an attempt to control her own emotions. Still, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, even in her khaki-green service dress, with her hair pulled into a sleek braided bun. Even with the look of shocked terror glinting in the depths of her eyes.

Unbelievably, Tom found it necessary to say the first thing he could coherently think. "I see you found some bobby pins."

Sasha bit back a smile, her ice-blue eyes lifting to take a thorough look at him. "And I see you found some mousse."

"Gel, actually."

"Really." She swallowed hard, nodding. "Fascinating."

Lugo suddenly appeared at Tom's elbow, a donut in one hand, and a half-full cup of coffee in the other. He'd been preparing to say something, but stopped as soon as he recognized the woman standing in the weird tableau with his friend. "Damn. Aren't you - Tom - isn't she - from the Maverick thing, right?"

"Yes, Bermudez." Tom lifted his eyes to survey the room, trying to pinpoint the Commander amongst the crowd. "Yes. She is."

"Well, spank me rosy." Bermudez glanced between Tom and Sasha momentarily before lifting his coffee cup in an ersatz salute. "If this ain't a bitch cluster, I don't know what is."

Tom couldn't have agreed more.


	8. Truths in Shadow

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Truths in Shadow**

 _Damn it all to hell._

Tom scanned the crowd, grateful for the few inches over six feet that gave him a better view in such situations. Sheffield was on the opposite end of the room, in the middle of an animated discussion with a civilian instructor, two Ensigns, and Lieutenant Alexeev. That was a conversation that would not end soon.

"Where is he?"

Of course she'd know who he'd been looking for. Tom glanced down at her, then back over towards Sheffield. "He's chatting with Alexeev. We've probably got a while before that's over."

"We need to talk about this."

Lugo had faded away as soon as he'd been able to, backing into the crowd with a subtlety that had surprised Tom. So, he and Sasha were left alone together, amidst the masses, standing closely enough that they could speak without it being overheard by everyone else, yet far enough apart to maintain decorum.

Without looking at her, Tom sighed. "Yes, we do."

Still, for several minutes, neither of them said anything. Tom gritted his teeth, his jaw protesting. What was there to say? There was nothing to discuss that would make any of this easier or less impossible. Discussion at this particular moment wouldn't be appropriate anyhow, surrounded as they were by people trained to ferret out abnormalities in human behaviors.

Not that anyone was paying attention to them. The only reason that they might have stood out in this crowd was that they were the only two people not socializing, not holding a cup of coffee, or not carrying a baked good. Ridiculously, Tom wished he'd taken Lugo up on his offer for a donut. At least it would have given him something to do other than stand here feeling as obtrusive as udders on a bull.

"I didn't know, Tom." She'd angled her face down and towards him, conversational, yet private.

"That's 'Lieutenant Chandler' to you, Ensign Tierney." His correction had been terse, and automatic - and he immediately regretted it when he saw the color edging its way back up her neck. Without seeing her expression, he couldn't tell if she were embarrassed or angry. Hell - he couldn't decide exactly how he felt about the entire situation himself. With an exasperated sound, he rolled back, gentling his tone. "We should probably start now as we plan to continue, shouldn't we?"

"Okay." She measured the syllables heavily. "I didn't know who you were, _Lieutenant_."

Her emphasis hadn't been terribly polite. Tom narrowed his eyes at her. "That's obvious."

"If I'd had any idea whatsoever, I - " Sasha faltered, still staring down at the floor, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. "I wouldn't have - "

She was struggling - just as much as he was. Somehow, knowing that made the situation a little more bearable. Tom glanced over towards Sheffield, but only Alexeev and the civilian remained where the Commander had been. Rapidly Tom searched the crowd, startled to find the older man only a dozen feet away from where he and Sasha stood, approaching their position with two more young officers in tow. Whatever there was to say would have to wait. He captured her attention with a quick nudge of his elbow and a shake of his head. "Not now."

Those clear blue eyes studied him for the scarcest of moments before looking away. Nodding, Sasha pressed her lips together tightly, schooling her features into a benign expression as she prepared to greet Sheffield and his companions.

"Chandler, Tierney." Sheffield smiled, waving the other two young officers forward. "These two firebrands are Taylor Frandsen, and Brent Jacobs. They'll be focusing their studies on Russia, Tom. Frandsen here actually lived in Russia for a few years on some religious thing and signed on with the Navy after finishing up at Arizona State. Jacobs played tight-end at the Academy, and still graduated with a three point eight with a double major in European History and Geography."

"Impressive." Tom tried to sound encouraging. He searched for an appropriate question. "What drew you to Navy Intelligence?"

Jacobs smiled nervously. "Well, Sir, I'm interested in making a real difference in the world. By tracking events and political trends, I believe that we can head off issues before they become international crises."

Frandsen nodded. "I'd rather be proactive than reactive, Lieutenant Chandler. And even though Russia's playing nice at the moment, it's probable that there are strong remnants of the old guard that are working at regaining power in the region."

Apparently, Commander Sheffield couldn't have been more pleased with those answers had he given them himself. Bobbing his head enthusiastically, he indicated Sasha with a wave of his palm. "And even though Tierney here isn't as well-versed in Russian affairs, she's fluent in five Eastern languages, and has extensive experience in dealing with the intricacies of the foreign affairs of Asian countries."

"Interesting." Mentally, Tom shook himself. He'd used that word twice already. Trying to look taciturn, he asked, "Did you grow up abroad?"

Sasha didn't quite meet his eye when she answered. "Yes, Sir. We traveled extensively when I was younger."

"She'd being modest, Tom." Sheffield leaned in conspiratorially. "Her mother was the U. S. Ambassador to Hong Kong for several years."

Ah. That made sense. The driver/bodyguard would have been provided by the Embassy, and the nanny would have been necessary for a young child whose mother was a State Department big-wig. "How enlightening."

Her eyes narrowed, the change nearly imperceptible. "Sir?"

"It must have been enlightening. To have spent so much of your early childhood in other countries. That experience had to have allowed you a very rare and extraordinary view of the world."

"I suppose so, Sir." Sasha conceded simply. Her tight smile indicated that she was done.

Sheffield beamed, clapping Jacobs good-naturedly on the shoulder. "So you see, Tom. You're going to have your hands full with these three."

"I can tell, Commander." Tom hoped that the smile he'd pasted on looked genuine. "I look forward to getting into the classroom and kicking things up a notch."

"Good. They're decent prospects. Great stock of people we have in this program." Somehow, his vague gesture indicated dismissal, and all three recruits made their separate ways back into the crowd. Watching them go, Sheffield leaned in towards Tom. "You'll find them to be very impressionable. Strong-willed, but teachable."

"I'm sure that they'll exceed expectations." Tom fought to keep his attention on the Commander, when what he really wanted to do was escape to his office. He rasped his fingertips against the strap of the backpack that was still slung over one shoulder. "You picked them, Sir. If they have your endorsement, then they must be capable."

"You'll be good for them, too. Your experiences have given you a unique perspective on global relations." Sheffield allowed himself a slow, thoughtful perusal of the rest of the group. "Like I told you a few days ago. This program is unusual and more than slightly experimental. We'd all love for it to succeed. But more than that, we need for it not to crap all over itself."

Nodding, Tom tried to infuse a level of optimism into his tone. "Understood, Commander."

"Excellent." Bracing his fingertips against his waist, the little man took another gander at the group milling around him. "Well, Tom. Carry on. Go and mingle with the other professors. Meet your students. Check them all out. Get a feel for your crew."

Oh, of all the unfortunate phrases. Imagining the ways in which he'd already accomplished that feat, Tom felt himself blanch a little. It took every ounce of willpower he still possessed to lift the corners of his lips in a semblance of a smile. "Good idea."

Glancing up at Tom, Sheffield's grin turned to an expression of concern. "Are you okay, Chandler? You kind of seem peaky to me."

"I'm fine, Commander."

"Seriously - you look as if you've seen a ghost."

He couldn't help it. His eyes made an erratic scan of the room. Instantly, he found her, unbelievably catching her at the same instant that she'd sent a look back to him. Her eyes were clear, steady, and knowing - too perceptive by far. She frowned a little, a wrinkle forming above her nose, finally breaking eye contact when she turned towards the door. He looked immediately away, but not before Sheffield caught the change in him, the older man's kindly face showing real concern. Tom adjusted his hold on the backpack on his shoulder, glaring down at his feet. "I'm just nervous, I think."

"You'll need to get over that, and quick, Tom."

"Yes, Sir."

"You can't let these little beggars sense fear." Sheffield's voice carried a hint of humor in it as he turned back into the crowd. Walking away, he threw his last bit of advice back over his shoulder. "They'll eat you alive."

Of that, there was no doubt.

He needed to get out of there. Pivoting, he aimed himself directly for the door, shoving himself heedlessly through the crowd. As if on cue, the younger officers made way for him, stepping aside as he moved through. Rank had its privileges.

A few groups had spilled out into the hall, but nobody paid Tom any heed when he passed, nor as he made his way down the first flight of stairs. A quick check of his watch as he angled around the landing told him that it was nearly noon, which gave him two hours before his class would begin.

Two hours to prepare himself for what was coming. Two hours to steel himself against those piercing blue eyes, and the knowledge that they held. Two hours to figure out how to expunge the memories of her from his system - of what they'd shared.

How the hell was that even possible? It was if she had imprinted upon him, burrowing deep into parts of him that he'd thought dormant. For some reason, that knowledge angered him - although whether he was more upset at her or at himself was a toss up. Logically, he knew that there was no way to have anticipated this particular turn of events - but still, he fought against the surge of frustration that had heated its way up his spine.

He wanted her. He wanted to be with her again. But most of all, he wanted more time. Time to figure out what exactly it was that crackled like wild energy between them. Time to explore her, learn her, and attempt to decipher her mysteries. Time he'd never get. He'd known it from the beginning - had even thought himself to be resigned to that fact. Yet, here he was, still wanting.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Rounding the last landing, he hurried towards the last flight of stairs, only to find a familiar figure standing near the bottom. She glanced up as he neared, watching him descend. He slowed, then stopped a few treads above her, a few feet away.

She was leaning back against the handrail of the staircase, bracing herself with her hands. "I figured you'd escape."

"Escape." Tom allowed his backpack to slide off his shoulder and down his arm, until he was gripping it in one hand. "That's an apt description."

"That was - " Her eyes flickered towards the ceiling briefly before completing her thought. "Awkward."

"Good Lord, yes." Tom looked around, reassuring himself that they were, indeed, alone. "Painfully so."

"Like I said before, Tom." Sasha's eyes were wide and sincere. "I had no idea who you were."

"You knew who I was." Tom exhaled heavily. "You didn't know _what_ I was."

"And if I had - well, things would have been different."

"Things wouldn't have been anything at all." Taking the three remaining steps in long strides, he indicated that she should follow with a little motion of his head. "Let's take this somewhere more private."

His office was dark, and quiet. He had a window, but Tom hadn't bothered opening the blinds when he'd arrived that morning. And now, the shadows suited the situation. It seemed more private, somehow. Shoving the door wide, he stepped aside and waited for Sasha to clear the doorway before shutting the door behind her.

"We can't change what happened."

She'd spoken as he'd quietly turned the lock. Tom turned, keeping his back against the door. Sasha had stopped near the edge of his desk, exactly where he'd been standing when Sheffield had brought up his incomplete thesis fewer than two hours earlier. Even in service dress she was stunning - the uniform accentuating her shape like no uniform had any business doing. Her hair, each strand precisely where it ought to be, only served to highlight the perfect curve of her cheekbones, and the elegant line of her throat. He curved his hand into a fist to quell the urge to touch her.

She was absolutely right. They couldn't change what had happened. They couldn't go back to being merely acquaintances at a bar - or to being strangers. There was no way to unring that bell, for want of a better cliche. He would know - for the rest of his life - how she'd filled his mind, challenged his senses, and exhilarated his body. Even now, as he looked at her, he could think of little other than the absolute satisfaction he'd found in just being with her. And that went further than the physical - she'd made him feel like _more_. There wasn't really any other way for him to describe it.

Not that he was even allowed to try. His gaze fell to the unimaginative shoes on her feet, so different from anything else he'd ever seen her wear. So different from bare toes curling into thick carpeting, or digging into tangled sheets. "No, we can't change it."

Reaching out, she fiddled with the edge of his desk with her fingertips. "So, I think that we just need to move on."

"So easy?" Tom's brow lifted. He hadn't intended to question her, but also hadn't quite been able to help himself. "You can just walk away without a second thought."

She smiled down at the desktop. "What choice do we have, Tom?"

None. He knew that. But it still stung. "Okay, then."

"I mean, we both knew going in that it wouldn't last, right?" She spoke forthrightly, but her voice was strained as she reached for and grasped his name plate from the little stand in front of his computer monitor. She traced the engraved letters before sliding it back into the groove of its holder. "We knew that it would only be for five days, and then we could both just walk away. Would just walk away."

"Right."

"Because, we're consenting adults, aren't we?" She turned away from him, crossing to the window and running her fingers along the dull metal edge of the cheap blinds there. "It was just a fling. Just a few days of fun and then back to the grind."

"Exactly." But she wasn't listening to him. Tom watched as she pried two of the slats apart and peeked through before letting them snap back together. She'd never fidgeted aimlessly before - not once in the hours they'd spent together. Even as she'd played with the plates and utensils after the dinner that they'd shared - her movements had been deliberate and direct, each action a natural extension of her. Not - whatever this was. Tom watched her straighten a picture on the wall before agreeing with her. "You're right."

"So, we can just let go." She turned towards him, but still didn't meet his eye. "Like we'd agreed to in the beginning."

"Just like that." It was a question poorly disguised as a statement.

She looked him straight in the eye for the first time. "Don't you believe me?"

"I don't know what to believe, Sasha." He set his backpack on the floor next to his desk. He was stalling, trying to find his center, but finding only disappointment edging on bitterness. "It turns out that I don't really know you. I thought I had an idea about who you were, but I was wrong."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Just that we spent four days together and talked on the phone a few times." He caught her eye briefly before dropping his gaze and refocusing on a spot just to the right of her left foot. "And in all that time, I'm not sure that you ever told me anything that was true."

She stopped, her entire body tensing up, her lovely face stricken. "You think I lied to you?"

"What else would you call it?" Tom scrubbed at his chin with his palm. He'd shaved that morning as usual, but in his haste it had been a bit of a hack job. Like everything else about his life, at the moment, it seemed. "Everything was built on a lie. From the beginning."

"I never lied to you."

"And you never told me the truth."

"I couldn't Tom." Sasha shook her head, her gaze fleeing towards the ceiling. "I couldn't let you in."

He thought about that for a moment, his jaw tight. When he was ready to speak, he couldn't look at her, focusing instead on the cheap linoleum tiles on the floor. "What the hell does that mean?"

It took her a while to continue. "I've already told you."

She sounded small, somehow, and more fragile than he'd ever imagined. Young. He looked up at her to see her watching him. "You didn't tell me anything."

"Whatever I shared with you, Tom, was the truth." She took a single, shuffling step towards him. "Whatever happened and was said between us was real."

"So all that crap about the dog and the nanny and the name thing - "

"It was real. I have never lied to you." Her tone was edging on exasperation.

"You lied about _everything_."

"No." She looked up at him, her face hardening, her lips thin. "I omitted things, but other than that, I was completely honest. Whatever I told you was the truth."

"Except the part about the llamas and the quintuplets."

"Except that part, of course." She rolled her eyes, tilting her head to one side. "Don't be obtuse, Tom."

"So, the nanny and the dog?"

"Actually happened. Her name is really Freja, and she and Jiichiro have three kids. They live outside of Tokyo, where he is a financial analyst and Freja works for a tour company."

"And your parents?"

"My parents." Sasha folded her arms across her midsection, as if trying to keep herself together. "My mother was the US Ambassador to Hong Kong under the previous administration. She's now a special consultant to the State Department. My father is a businessman and acts as a cultural attaché from time to time. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon, so he doesn't need to work much. They are - _very_ important people."

He could practically see the capital letters in that title, could see how it had been for her. In his mind's eye he could see her as the child she'd described, wild hair, buck teeth and all, desperate for something permanent and special. He jumped to the painful, logical conclusion. "Very important people who probably didn't have much time for a daughter."

Her expression radiated something odd - gratitude? Relief? As if she were thankful that he'd recognized that. "Not really."

"And the Swiss boarding schools?"

"The first one was basically a finishing school for wealthy debutantes." She lifted a hand to smooth back her already perfect hair. "I didn't quite fit in there."

Tom cleared his throat, tilting a look at her through the dim light of his office. "Let me guess about the second one."

"Go ahead."

"It was a military school."

"Turns out I was better at being a soldier than I was at being a debutante."

"I'll bet that made Mom and Dad happy."

For the first time, the corner of her mouth lifted, but the result was more sadness than smile. "Not quite."

"So, you're a poor little rich girl."

For the barest of moments, her face radiated pained confusion. She recovered quickly, though, schooling her expression into one of bland benignity. "I've been called that before."

He'd hurt her. He hadn't meant to - deep in his soul, he knew that he was lashing out at her in retaliation for their current situation. Not that it was her fault - he was just as much to blame for the whole thing. He should have never gone to that bar in the first place. Should have made his excuses to Lugo and stayed home. Should have left her number on the ground by the taco cart and walked away. But he hadn't, and she'd welcomed his touch, his kiss, his self - she'd made him feel whole and able and right for the first time since long before Kosovo, and then allowed him to walk away. It had been exactly what they'd agreed to, and what he'd been expecting. But now - now things were infinitely more screwed up than he'd even imagined possible. And it wasn't just her. It was him, too. Because walking away from her while he believed that she'd left him behind was hard enough, but walking away while still seeing her - interacting with her - every day was going to be excruciating.

"And so I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?" He'd tried to temper his tone, but he was frustrated too. He could tell by her eyes when he spoke that he'd failed.

"Of course not. I just need you to - " She fell silent, scuffing at the floor a little with the toe of her sensible shoe.

He didn't answer at first, simply waiting, watching as she glared down at her shoes, seemingly seeking inspiration. When she finally looked up at him, he couldn't read her face - another indicator of how little he really knew her. "You need me?"

"I need for you to understand."

"What?" He exhaled heavily. "What exactly am I supposed to understand?"

"That none of this was on purpose. It went farther than I'd intended."

"And last night?"

"Wasn't supposed to have happened."

"Too complicated?"

"Too complicated."

He narrowed his eyes at her, his chin lifting. "And, if we hadn't slept together, then everything else would have been okay?"

"It would have been easier, right? Sex without spending time together is easy to walk away from. It's just - physical. But being with you. Feeling - what it was like. So perfect, and comfortable and easy. And then _being_ with you, and feeling - " shaking her head, Sasha closed her eyes on the memory. "Feeling _everything else_. It's too much."

Tom knew exactly what she was saying, nodding to show her that he did, indeed, understand.

"So, you see, it's best just to leave in the past."

"We don't have any other choice, Sasha." Tom leaned back against the wall behind him, settling his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. "None. This - us - it can't ever have happened."

"I know." She nodded, pressing her lips together so tightly that they lost color. "I know."

"Like I said before. Let's start from now as we need to continue on. Just - forget."

"So easy." She was throwing his own words back at him, but not with malice. She sounded defeated, and tired, even more so when she sighed the words again. "So easy."

And really, there wasn't any way to pretend that it would be. Nor was there anything else to say. There wasn't any possible way to make what had to happen easier or more palatable, no way to ease the pain, or mitigate the hurt. He was something of an expert on pain, lately, and he didn't see any way around what was to come. Tom straightened, sliding his hands free of his pockets. "It's probably time for me to get ready for class."

"I'm sure it is." She blinked rapidly, swallowing against whatever else it was that she'd been wanting to say. Smoothing down her already neat skirt, she moved towards the door, reaching out to turn the handle, only to stall midway.

She was close - so close. Near enough that he could practically feel her heart beat, could smell the soap she'd used that morning - the same scent that had assailed him that morning. He could see each individual inky feather of her eyelashes, the ring of near-purple that danced around the ocean-blue of her iris. She was pale, and tense, and nervous, and Tom ached to comfort her, to hold her close and assure her that things would be all right.

"But what if we don't?" Barely a whisper. She was looking down at the door handle, at her fingers poised on the metal of the knob. Deliberately, she turned it back, lowering her hand.

"Don't what?"

"Just walk away." She turned her head towards him, not looking up at him, but seeming to steal a little bit of heat from his body. "What if we just leave things as they are for now, and then try again later?"

"When?"

"After this is done. After we're both transferred away. When we're no longer in the same chain of command."

"Sasha." All it took was a movement of his hand, and his fingers were alongside hers. Not touching, really, just there. "I'm really not sure that's a good idea. In fact, I'm positive that it's not."

"It wouldn't be breaking any rules, Tom."

"It's not the rules I'm concerned about."

She tilted her chin up to look at him. Her eyes were huge, and earnest, her lips parted as she breathed in quick little gusts. "Because I'm not really sure I _can_ leave you behind, Tom. Not completely."

"That's walking a fine line, Sasha."

"I've walked finer lines before."

"I haven't." His voice was barely a whisper. "And I won't."

"That's right." She nodded slightly as she gifted him with a heartbreaking smile. "Because you're Cary Grant. Or Jimmy Stewart."

"Not James Dean."

"Damn it." And then her hand did brush against his, sweetly, gently - as if she were caressing something precious. "I've always had a thing for bad boys."

"Then maybe you should go find one."

She'd tried to stop herself - he could see the hesitation in her eyes before she'd leaned into him. It took all the discipline he could muster to turn his face at the last moment, so that her lips warmed his cheek rather than his mouth. She lingered, her hand sliding up to curve around his neck, her breath warm against his skin. "I'll miss you, Tom Chandler."

But she didn't leave him time to answer, wrenching the door open, and her body away from his. Her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the hallway as she fled, leaving him alone in the darkened office. Empty, hurting, and cold.


	9. The Taste of Words

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **The Taste of Words**_

 _To my Last Shipper friends, and greatest fans. Thank you!_

 _I missed a name, but you'll appear in the next chapter – promise._

 _Again, I truly appreciate everyone for reading and reviewing._

 _I'm having fun writing this, but it's even better knowing that other people are following along._

 _I am grateful._

He was learning.

It had taken him a while to get the hang of it - a few weeks for him to be able to treat her as if she were no different than any of his other students, and even longer to be able to actually see her that way. To be honest, he wasn't sure that he was even succeeding. But at least he could call on her in class without his stomach lurching, and he could pass her in the hallway without having to remind himself not to touch her. He could look at her without remembering what had been, and damning himself for what he'd lost.

He wasn't hurting so much anymore. Wasn't feeling the loss. He'd finally slid into a place where he couldn't feel much of anything. And what he could feel had become muted, dull, and obscure. There were still random difficult moments - lying alone in his bed inundated by the silence, or suddenly turning a corner at the College and coming face to face with her - at those times, a frisson of awareness lurched through him before sinking like an millstone into his core. It would take a while, but that pain would soon weary itself into regret that festered inside him until he could freeze it out with forced apathy. But those instances had been few and far between lately. In the meantime, he'd settled into a welcome state of nothingness. Filled his hours with constant work, or sleep, or physical therapy.

So, his life had become not as much being in pain, then, as seeking numbness. But feeling nothing seemed better than the ache that he'd carried for the first few weeks, better than the guilt he'd felt after their last meeting, or whenever he remembered the sound of her footsteps as she'd fled.

During those times, he used his words; regulations, fraternization, code, duty. He remembered to convince himself that somehow, it had all been a giant, cosmically inevitable mistake. That he wasn't as invested, or hurt, or involved as he felt. He told all that to himself. He denied. He lied. And somehow, he convinced himself that the lies were true.

So yeah. He was learning.

-OOOOOOOO-

Tom's phone had started ringing as he'd fumbled with his office door. It was late - they'd kicked him out of the campus library at closing time, so he'd gathered up the books he'd been working through and headed back to his office.

His thesis was coming along nicely, now that he'd gotten back into the swing of things. One of the civilian professors had offered to act as Tom's advisor, and Sheffield had arranged for Tom's admission into the College's Master's program. His mother had even been able to unearth his notebooks and research notes from the plastic bins in which they'd been stored when he had packed up for his deployment into Kosovo. She'd happily sent them along when he'd called to ask her about them, packed up with a tin full of his favorite cookies. Bless her meddling little heart.

For so long, he'd been solely focused on regaining his physical abilities that he'd forgotten that there was life outside the injury. No matter how strong he'd grown physically, exercising his brain was a completely different challenge. He was more than slightly envious of the students in his class, most of whom had arrived at the War College fresh out of their university studies. For Tom, it wasn't just that he'd become unaccustomed to the day-to-day rigmarole of research and study, it was that it had become beyond boring to him. If there was one thing that he'd learned by being sucked into this program, it was that he wasn't cut out for academia.

That realization had made him work even harder to reach that nebulous ninety-five percent range of motion goal. He'd started hitting the weight room daily, moved from the treadmill to an elliptical to increase his speed, and, to Jackson's utter delight, Tom had even found himself a yoga class.

He needed to be ready to get back into action once his time in Newport was complete. To accomplish that, he needed to finish his thesis and pass his physical fitness evaluations. Nothing else mattered. Nothing and nobody. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Lies. Denial.

The books landed on his desk with a heavy _thud_. Shoving the door closed behind him with a practiced move of his foot, he reached into his pants' pocket and found his phone. With a quick check of the name on the screen, he flipped it open.

"What?"

"Dude!"

Lugo was obviously at a club. The electronic tone of the music in the background sounded as if it were one of the modern dives near the College, rather than the more traditional bars in the tourist district. Tom lifted the phone away from his ear as a peal of group laughter blared through the speaker.

"Where are you, man?"

Tom frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You said you'd meet us!"

"When did I say that?" Rounding the desk, he pulled out his chair and sat. "I don't remember this conversation."

"Yesterday. After the range testing."

Tom leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. "As I recall, you just suggested that we go out. We didn't make any actual plans."

"Yeah, well, Pete and Jim are here, and we need a fourth."

Groaning, Tom stared up at the ceiling. "You can't possibly be suggesting that I join you for another game of Maverick."

"The babes are plentiful, beautiful and bored, my friend." Lugo took a noisy drink from what sounded like a straw. "And you need a distraction."

"No." He rubbed his eyes with his palm. "I really don't."

"It's been a while, Tommy. You need to get back on the horse."

"As it turns out, I'm not that great a rider."

"Listen." Lugo's voice dropped a tone, becoming more serious. "Just because it didn't turn out so well last time - "

"It was an abject disaster, Bermudez."

Lugo chose to barrel past Tom's retort. "Just because it didn't turn out so well doesn't mean that it won't be better this time."

The noise on the other side of the phone had changed - Lugo had moved from inside the bar to somewhere quieter. Outside, maybe, or near the restrooms. Somewhere away from the madding crowd. Tom shook his head, glaring up at the institutional ceiling tiles as if they would give him a sign. "I'm busy."

"With what? The thesis?"

"Yeah. Research. Lots of research."

"Books will keep, friend." Lugo sighed heavily. "Come on. If anyone in the world needs a Maverick night, it's you."

For the longest time, Tom simply sat there, staring at the pile of books on his desk. Truth be told, he could use a night out, could stand to blow off some steam. He needed something to force his mind away from teaching, and research. He needed a distraction from _her_.

But frankly, he didn't have the energy. The thought of interacting with other women made his gut wrench when he'd tried, and failed, so badly with Sasha. Maybe it was one of those 'once-bitten-twice-shy' things his mother had always prattled about. He'd already found someone who had made him feel whole. And then he'd discovered that she was not only off-limits, but also unattainable. And then he'd hurt her, and chased her away.

All told, he wasn't really ready to try it all again.

"Maybe next time, Lugo."

"You need this, Tom."

"No, buddy." Tom sat up, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his desk. "No, I really don't."

"You've got to get through this."

"I know."

"I mean, she's a great girl and all. Hell of a shot, and smarter than anyone else in the program, but she's just a girl, right?"

 _Just a girl_. Tom traced a crack in his desktop with his fingertip as he mulled that one over. _Just a girl_. Unbidden, images rose in his head - Sasha laughing, teasing him, tipping up on her toes to kiss him, searching in the sand for the perfect rock, so beautiful and so cold on the pier, in his office - earnest in trying to explain herself. And then other images, her hair in a wild tumble on the pillow, her head thrown back - a tiny smile on her face, her eyes half-way closed, her long, strong legs tangled in the sheets. The look she'd given him when she'd seen his scars - and then how she'd salvaged his pride. The bare hunger in her eyes as she'd refused to give up the clothing in the hallway. How it had been to just talk with her, be intrigued by her, be challenged by her.

 _Just a girl._

Sasha Tierney was in no way _just_ an anything. She was _everything_.

Everything that he couldn't have.

"Not tonight, Lugo." Tom frowned, his hand stilled on the desk. "Maybe next time."

"Tommy - "

"Not tonight." Sighing, he closed his eyes, suddenly even more tired than before. "I've got to get some sleep."

Lugo waited a few beats before responding. When he did, his voice evinced disappointment, and more than a little disapproval. "But we're still going out tomorrow, right? There's stuff that needs celebrating."

"Yeah." Tom smiled into the phone, as if that would placate his friend. "Sure."

He heard a faint 'click', and then the connection went dead.

Snapping his phone closed, Tom tossed it onto his desk, where it skidded until it came to a stop next to the stack of books. Tom stared at it for a moment before easing his eyes up to read the title emblazoned on the spine of the book on the bottom. _Soviet Military Strategy - D. Sokolovskii._

It had taken the entire afternoon just to find that book. The library's antiquated card catalog system had shown it to be "in", but the designated spot on the shelf had been mysteriously empty. Tom had spent several hours poring over the European history section trying to find where it had been mistakenly placed - had even enlisted the librarian's assistant to help him in his quest. The girl, a spunky little thing by the name of Candace, hadn't been able to find, either. She'd even dug through the piles of books in the book restoration section in the basement. No Sokolovskii.

He'd finally found it on a shelf three aisles over, shoved between a book about Russian farming techniques and a treatise written in Russian about cows. Weird.

He'd been planning on diving right in, but the desire had fled. Standing, he reached for his phone, sliding it into his front pocket. Grabbing his backpack, he threw it over his shoulder and walked out of his office, allowing the door to shut and lock behind him. He was tired, and the next day was going to be long. He needed sleep. Lugo was right about one thing - Sokolovskii could wait.

-OOOOOOOO-

Physical therapy, and then yoga. Then the fifteen-minute drive to the College.

Tom shifted his truck out of gear, and turned off the motor. He was still parking on the outermost edges of the lot - mostly because the walking was actually helping in his healing. Also, it was just easier parking the Beast in the hinterlands, where fewer cars were competing for space. Win-win.

Today, however, the lot was nearly deserted. He didn't even have to be careful when he opened his door to get out. Hefting his pack over his shoulder, Tom locked the truck and then aimed himself for his office.

He was about half-way when his phone rang. Fishing the device out of his pocket, he flipped it open with a practiced move of his thumb and raised it to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Tommy!"

Smiling, Tommy slowed down his pace. This conversation was going to take a while. His sister was notoriously long-winded. "Hey, Pipsqueak!"

"I'm in line at the pharmacy, or I'd sing."

"Why are you in the pharmacy?"

Sighing, Mindi hesitated. "Promise you won't tell Mom."

"Okay." Tom grinned. "But you do realize that the only time you ever swear me to secrecy is when - "

"When I'm knocked up." Mindi laughed. "I know. I just can't seem to help myself."

"Which part can't you help? Getting pregnant, or lying to Mom about it?"

"The getting pregnant part." She didn't sound too upset about it, though. "Chris and I are completely jazzed about it, but you know how Mom gets."

Tom stepped over one of the cement berms that acted as a separation between cars. "She just worries about you. Pregnancy and diabetes aren't necessarily a good mix."

"I know." Mindi heaved a gigantic sigh. "But my doctors and I are being cautious, as always."

"So, is this a sure thing?"

"Did the blood test last week."

"And the pharmacy visit is for - " Tom trailed off, dodging a couple of older students who were standing near the crosswalk. There was no point in finishing the question. His little sister was always a chatterbox.

"Actually, I'm here for Jenny's asthma medication. Poor little thing has been wheezing lately."

"Bummer." Frowning into the phone, Tom aimed himself towards the front doors of his building. "And how's Silvie?"

"She's a pill." Breathing out a laugh, Mindi switched her phone from one ear to the other. "She played beauty shop yesterday and managed to cut all the hair off three of her Barbies and most of her My Little Ponies. I've got a bag full of rainbow colored hair that she keeps insisting that I can glue back onto her dolls' heads. When you're three, you just don't understand that it doesn't work that way."

"How did she get the scissors?"

"I was making snowflakes for the holiday bulletin board at school and suddenly had to barf. By the time I got back from the bathroom, she'd found the scissors and gotten to chopping things. I'm just lucky it wasn't her own hair."

"Or her fingers." Reaching out, Tom swung the door wide and headed through. "That would have been messy."

"True. Hold on."

Tom listened as his sister carried on a quick conversation. The sound was muffled, and he could imagine her standing there, holding the phone against her body while she chatted with the pharmacy worker. At one point in their adult lives, he'd been able to have an entire conversation with his sister without these interruptions, but then the kids had happened. Not that he minded - Jenny and Silvie were two of his very favorite people in the world, and if he had to put up with a few odd glitches while talking to his sister, well, they were worth it.

Turning a corner, he passed the department secretary's desk and headed past the stairs towards his dark little hall. He was entering the hall by the time his sister came back onto the phone.

"Okay, I'm back. What were we talking about?"

"Barbies. Ponies. Rainbow hair."

"Ah. The great hair massacre."

Tom laughed. He'd reached his office door. Inserting the key into the lock, he opened the door. "I'm sure Silvie will grow out of it."

"Jenny did. Silvie will figure it out, too." Mindi was the kind of mom who didn't stress the small stuff. "But that's not why I'm calling."

Rolling his eyes, Tom flicked his lights on and settled his backpack into the chair next to his desk. "I know."

"You know what today is."

"Yes. I've already had twenty-six of them."

"And now, you've had twenty-seven." Mindi paused, muttering some choice words under her breath. After a moment, she spoke again. "I can never remember my bankcard's PIN code. Chris is convinced that the pregnancy brain has started earlier with each kid."

"Chris is a smart man."

"Not to mention sexy as hell."

"Oh, gross." Grinning, Tom sat into his desk chair, sliding down until he was slouching comfortably. "TMI, Pipsqueak."

"Anyhoo - " She giggled into the phone. "About that song."

"Please don't." He knew his plea wouldn't work, but tried every year, anyway.

"But it's my favorite part of the day." To her credit, she was only slightly whining.

"It's totally unnecessary."

"Tommy." Now, her tone was the same one she used for misbehaving kids at school.

How was it that she could get her way with a single word? Even after all these years, his little sister held all the power. Sighing, Tom covered his face with his palm. "Go ahead."

Mindi launched into a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday", ending with a flourish where she sailed upwards into a register that Tom was fairly certain didn't actually exist in Western music. When she was finally done, he could hear a few people in the background laughing.

"Thank you." Tom grinned, despite himself. "Are you still in the pharmacy?"

"Of course I am. I'm not done shopping yet. They make you pay separately for the prescriptions. Now I'm getting some vitamins and other things."

"Well, I appreciate you humiliating yourself in public on my account."

"Who's humiliated?" A metallic clang in the background indicated that she'd tossed something into a shopping cart. "All the greats prefer to sing for audiences. Some guy near the cold and flu section even clapped."

"Nice."

"So? What awesome plans do you have for your big day?"

The office sat silent around him, and Tom couldn't help but stare at the boring walls for a moment. He really needed to find a poster or something. "Nothing, really. I might go out with Lugo and some other friends tonight."

"Do you have classes today?"

"It's Saturday." Tom glanced up at his calendar. "We don't have weekend sessions until later in the semester when we start the war games."

"Oh." Something else clanged into her shopping cart. "So, no hot date?"

"No dates. Hot or otherwise."

"Mom said something about a girl you were seeing."

Tom stifled a groan. He'd mentioned to his mother that he'd gone out with a girl only peripherally and in passing, but just because Patricia Chandler felt better about life in general if her eldest son was at least attempting to find himself a wife. "I went out with her a few times. It's over now."

"I'm assuming we aren't sharing that information with Mom?"

"You keep my secret, and I'll keep yours." Tom tried not to scowl, but failed. "We saw each other a few times. She turned out to be one of my students."

"Holy crap." Mindi exhaled heavily. A lifelong Army brat, she understood frat regs. "That's awkward. Was she amazing?"

"Pretty much." Pipsqueak was the only family member that Tom could talk with completely freely. They were only eighteen months apart in age, so they'd always been close. There wasn't much about each others' lives that they didn't share. "She actually reminded me a lot of you."

"So, she was gorgeous with a smoking hot body, too?"

"You're funny."

"How long has it been since you broke it off?"

"Five weeks." Not that he'd been keeping track, though, right?

After a thoughtful pause, Mindi spoke again, her voice gentle. "So, are you over her yet?"

He'd never lied to his little sister, and wasn't about to start. "Not yet. I'm working on it."

"What's to work on? You pout for a few days and then move on, right?"

"It's not that easy. It didn't end particularly well." Tom shook his head a little, remembering. "I said some pretty crappy things. I was out of line. But because of the situation, I haven't been able to - "

At his pause, Mindi filled in where he'd stalled. "You haven't been able to apologize."

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He sent a hostile look towards the screen saver morphing its way around his computer monitor. "I acted like an ass. She didn't deserve that."

"So tell her you're sorry."

"When, exactly? During class, or while we're in the hallway, surrounded by Navy top brass?"

"Meet her somewhere outside the College?"

"Really not a good idea. That could get complicated."

"Someone might see you?"

Tom looked down at his hands. "No, it's a chemistry thing."

"As in, it's still there between you?" Mindi had stopped shopping - he couldn't hear the squeak of the cart's wheels in the background. "Okay. You've got a point."

He could practically see Sasha standing next to him those weeks ago, their fingers touching as they spoke next to his office door. The look on her face as he'd rejected her had been painful to process. "Maybe it's better this way. It's easier to hate someone than get over them, right?"

"Not really." True to form, his sister wasn't going to sugar coat anything. "Either way, it sucks."

"Damn right about that."

"You'll figure it out, Tommy." Mindi had always had complete faith in him - her positive tone demonstrated that. "It'll work out."

"I'm not so sure about that this time."

The squeaking had started again, only more slowly than before. "She must be seriously amazing."

Tom closed his eyes against the pain that was working its way up his being. "Yes. She is."

A few more items dropped into her cart before Mindi spoke again. "You need to get back out there."

"I think I'll just concentrate on school for now."

"Come on, Tom. You need to start looking."

"It's not like shopping for a car, Pip."

"I guess not." Mindi hesitated. "I just want you to be happy. I don't like the thought of you being alone."

"I know." Tom smiled. "And I appreciate it."

Mindi sighed into the phone. "I'm worried about you, Tommy."

"You don't need to be, Pipsqueak."

"You didn't come home for Thanksgiving, and now you're all alone on your birthday. Are you at least planning on coming back for Christmas?"

Tom frowned, fixing his gaze on the ceiling overhead. "Probably not. I've got to get this thesis written."

"Silvia and Jennifer are barely going to recognize you the next time they see you." Ah, guilt. Mindi had learned that skill at the feet of their expert of a mother. "Last Christmas you were still in the hospital, and next year who knows where you'll be? Probably sailing on some battleship in the Persian Gulf or something."

"That's indeed possible."

"Rob is bringing his girlfriend home for Christmas, and he's told us to be ready for an announcement of some sort. She's up for some big internship at Lehman in New York, and my guess is that they'll move to Manhattan after the wedding. So, if you don't come home this year, it might be the last time for a while that we get to spend the holidays together."

Tom allowed a little time to pass before responding to that. "I'll think about it."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay." Mindi sounded mollified, if not convinced. "Don't sit around in your office all day staring at the computer screen. Just go out and have some fun today, okay?"

"I'll do my best." Tom fiddled with a loose bit of fake leather on the armrest of his office chair. "You take care of yourself and baby number three. If I hear that you're not checking your sugars or eating right, I might have to come smack you around a little."

"Hey. At least that would get you to come visit." She was only kind of kidding. But then, her voice turned serious. "Happy birthday, Tommy. You're the best."

"Love you, too, Pip."

-OOOOOOOOO-

Sokolovskii hadn't disappointed. The Soviet military strategist had been decades ahead of his time, in many ways, discussing the implications and requirements of nuclear proliferation in regards to waging war. Tom had made his way through half the book, taking copious quantities of notes. Even after nearly forty years, the way Soviet leadership had assessed Western military strengths was indicative of Russia's exemplary information-gathering skills, showcasing their unique and potent abilities to develop assets and ferret out otherwise protected details.

Tom finally closed the book when he noticed that the light filtering in through the blinds was fading. A glance at his clock told him that it was after five.

He'd turned off his phone just before lunch, thinking he'd get more done if he wasn't worrying about someone interrupting him. He turned it back on. As the screen flickered to life, he saw that he'd missed two calls from his mother, one from Rob, and three from Lugo.

While turning off his computer and packing up his books, Tom called his mother back, thanking her for the package that still, sat, unopened, on the milk crate end table he'd had to drag inside now that it was too cold to sit on the terrace. After he'd ended the call with his mom, he'd called his brother, and lastly, dialed Lugo.

"Tonight, right?"

"Sure, man." Tom had nodded, walking across the parking lot towards his truck. "I'll be there. But no clubbing. Just dinner, okay?"

"Sure. I'll bring some people." Bermudez had actually sounded okay about taking it easy that night. "We'll have some laughs. I'll get a cake."

Hanging up, Tom had turned his wrist and looked at his watch. He had a couple of hours until he had to meet up with Lugo and whoever he'd invited to dinner. More than enough time to get home and get changed.

It was nearly dark by the time he reached the outskirts of the parking lot, and it had turned cold. A few lanes away from his truck, he reached into his pocket for his keys, anxious to get his truck on and the heater running. Regardless how reliably his engine turned over, it was still going to take a while to heat up the cab.

He didn't notice the figure leaning against the driver's side door until he was only a few yards away, and even then, he couldn't make out who it was. There weren't lights this far out in the parking lot, and he didn't recognize any of the few other scattered cars as belonging to anyone that he knew. Slowing, he peered through the deepening twilight.

Her voice gave her away. "I thought you were going to stay in there all night."

Sasha.

Tom stopped a few feet away from her, sinking both hands into his jeans pockets. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you."

"Did you need something?"

"Not really." Sasha pushed herself away from the door of the truck. Her boots scuffled a little on some loose gravel. "I just brought you something."

"You really, really shouldn't have."

"I know." Even buried in the thick fabric of her coat, her shrug conveyed her seeming nonchalance. She'd wrapped a scarf around her neck and chin, and her hair flowed freely down over her shoulders. "That's why I did it out here, rather than in your office or during class."

"It's still not a good idea."

Her face was pale against the darkness of her scarf, her eyes huge as she threw him a wry grin. "Differentiating between good ideas and bad ones seems to be a problem of mine, doesn't it?"

He nodded - just a little. "Maybe."

"Well, anyway." Stepping sideways, she reached down for a package that had been sitting on the running board of his truck. It wasn't large - about the size of tissue box - although not as long. "I just figured that you needed this."

"What is it?"

"It's a surprise. You'll have to open it."

Stupid. It would be pure stupidity for him to get any closer to her. In the College, or on the range, with the uniform and honorifics reminding him who and what they both were, it was easier to construct the barriers that he needed between them. But out here - without such reminders of rank and duty, he was just Tom, and she was just Sasha, and his fingers ached to touch her.

She extended her hand, the box balanced in her fingers. "I promise that it won't bite you."

Tom glared down at the box, but then reached out and grasped it anyway. He was careful not to touch her as he gripped it and drew it close to his body. He measured his next words carefully. "If it did, I'd deserve it."

Sasha's brows drew close together. "What are you talking about?"

He'd been wallowing. There was really no other word for it. Talking to Mindi had made him realize that the reason that he'd been unable to expunge his need for Sasha was that he was still ashamed of the way he'd acted towards her. He'd placed the fault on her, when he should have been blaming himself.

"I'm sorry." He looked down at the box, then up, capturing her gaze. "I treated you badly the last time that we spoke. I accused you of - some really terrible things. I shouldn't have said the stuff that I said."

"I'm a big girl, Tom." She smiled, a little sadly, edging a bit closer. "I think that we both bear equal blame about what happened."

"Still. I shouldn't have accused you of lying. That went too far."

Her eyes searched his face. "I didn't tell you the whole truth. You weren't entirely wrong."

"Stop trying to take the blame." Tom's hand tightened on the box. "Just let me apologize."

"Why? So you can have the satisfaction of being the bigger person here?"

"Damn it, Sasha." Tom groaned a little. "Are we really going to argue about who gets to apologize more?"

Her smile was brilliant, even in the darkness. "Damn it, Tom. Maybe."

He couldn't help but grin back. "You're impossible."

"You've told me that before." Sasha was close enough that the hem of her coat teased at his legs. Leaning towards him, she tapped the box in his hands. "Will you just open the box?"

Tom studied her for a moment before turning his attention towards the carton in his hand. It only took a moment for him to break through the sticker that was holding the box closed, and another few seconds to raise the lid and peer inside. The unmistakeable smell of chocolate wafted up towards him. Inside, he could make out whipped frothy frosting of some sort piled artistically on a cupcake. Taped to the upraised top of the box was a single candle.

She'd remembered.

"I've spent a few birthdays alone, so I know what it's like." Sasha peeped up at him from under her lashes. "I just thought you might be missing your family."

"I am, actually." Tom carefully folded the top back down, inserting the flap without disturbing the cupcake. "Phone calls aren't quite the same."

"Good in a pinch, but nothing like being together in the flesh."

"Exactly."

Far across the parking lot, another car started up, its lights flaring to life. Tom watched as it backed out of its space and then lurched forward, slowly puttering towards the lot's entrance. When he looked back at Sasha, it was to discover that she'd been watching him. She didn't look away.

"I really do understand why you said what you said." She slid her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. "It's easier to be angry than hurt."

Tom simply stood there, holding his boxed cupcake. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn't finished.

"And where we are right now, in this ridiculously ironic situation, it makes sense. I freely admit to trying the same technique."

"So, you acted like a bonehead and accused me of things I didn't do?"

Her quick smile flashed in the night. "No. But I just might have imagined your face on the training dummy in my kickboxing class."

"And on the paper targets on the shooting range?"

She licked her lips, raising one brow in an expression of amused speculation. "Maybe."

"I hope they were all headshots."

"Well, that goes without saying." She turned a little back and forth, so that her coat brushed against his shins. "But then, I'm just _that_ good."

"So I've noticed."

"Anyway." Tilting her head downward, she breathed into the folds of her scarf, warming her nose and cheeks before lifting her chin to look at him again. " _Anyway_. I just wanted to tell you that we don't have to hate each other. We can't be - well - we can't be what I want for us to be. But that doesn't mean that we can't be friends."

He tested the word to see if it felt as wrong as it sounded. "Friends."

"It's not ideal."

"Not really, no."

"But it's better than continuing to feel what I'm feeling right now."

Tom pressed his lips together tightly, his jaw working a bit before answering. He wanted to ask her exactly what those feelings were, but knew that would be asking for a dangerous sort of intimacy. Instead, he simply nodded, looking past her at the paint flaking off the hood of his truck. "Probably."

She'd noticed his hesitation, but didn't remark upon it. Instead, she squinted up at him. "It's like that carnival game. You know what I'm talking about? That fishing one, where you throw the stupid little magnetic hook into the pit and you're aiming for the big prize - the giant teddy bear - only to fall short and you get the stupid sticky hand thing. Now, you wanted the big teddy bear, not the sticky hand, but you don't want to throw the sticky hand back because hey - at least you got something."

Tom looked back down at the box in his hand. He knew exactly what she was talking about. Swallowing the ache that had somehow lodged itself in his throat, he nodded. "Yeah."

"And something is better than nothing."

She was looking at him, now, her expression intent. Tom studied Sasha's face - pale cheeks, the wrinkle that had formed between her brows, the slight quiver of her bottom lip - before meeting her gaze fully. "Is it?"

"I can't stand the nothing, Tom."

So, she'd been feeling it too. She'd been assailed with the same numbness that had taken over his existence. She was hurting like he was. He honestly couldn't tell if that made things better or worse. Despondency wasn't the great equalizer, but knowing that they were both suffering at least let him know that he wasn't alone. "Yeah. Me either."

The corner of her lips turned upwards, but she quickly buried the smile behind her scarf. When she responded, her words were muffled slightly. "So, we'll be friends."

"Friends." This time, the word didn't taste quite so foul.

"Okay, then." Sasha turned slightly, pulling her hand from her pocket to gesture behind her. "My car is back there. I'd better go."

Tom tilted a little, looking past the bed of his truck towards the only other car remaining in the lot. It was black, and small, and elegant. Exactly what he had expected she'd drive. "Mercedes?"

She shrugged, scrunching up her nose. "A graduation gift from my father."

Tom couldn't help it. He tossed her a wry expression. "It's better than a sticky hand."

"True." She took several steps backwards, before pivoting and aiming herself around the back end of his truck.

Tearing his gaze away from her retreating form, Tom looked down at the box in his hand. On a whim, he took several steps towards his back bumper. "Hey! Friend!"

Sasha turned, smiling. "What?"

"It's my birthday." He lifted the box, giving it the tiniest little wobble. "Aren't you going to sing to me?"

"Mmmm. Let me think about that." Sasha pretended to ponder for a moment before her eyes flew wide and she shook her head. "No."

"Come on, Sasha. It's tradition."

"Maybe. But you're forgetting one important point."

"What's that?"

"Unlike some other losers I can name," she backed away a little more, her grin bright in the night. "I haven't Mavericked in years."


	10. Apply Pressure

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Apply Pressure**_

 _This chapter got super long, so I split it into two. Both are kind of talky-talky set-ups for future events. Be patient. Things will get interesting again soon._

"Chandler? What's your assessment of the group thus far?"

Tom shook himself back to the present, his mind racing to answer the question that had been posed. Looking across the conference room table, he met Sheffield's gaze. "I think that they all have their own individual strengths and weaknesses. Pretty much what you're going to find in any group of people."

"But you have to agree that some of them are more deficient than others, don't you?" Alexeev was sitting on the opposite side of the table from Tom, as close as it was possible to get to Sheffield. His khaki green shirt was pristine and sharp, as was his hair.

Trying not to glance downward at his soiled working uniform, Tom listened as Alexeev waxed eloquent about the issues he perceived in the recruits. He'd heard it all before, multiple times - during the hours before and after classes, in those off moments when their students were working individually or testing, or if Tom hadn't properly surveilled the staff lounge and found himself there at the same time as the other instructor. It was evident that Alexeev was under the mistaken impression that Tom viewed the younger officers in the same way he did - as failures.

"I'm not sure that I'd say that any of them are deficient." Tom scratched at a spot behind his ear and grimaced when he found dirt. He'd spent most of the afternoon on the range with Lugo and half of the recruit class. Earlier in the week, they'd had snow, which was in the process of melting. The result was a cold, muddy mess in the range area, where most of the already-dead grass and groundcover had been worn away from use. "Franks can't seem to hit anything he aims at, and Yuhas is struggling with the language, but beyond that, everyone else is trying, at least."

"Admit it. Davis is a washout."

"Davis has already left the program. She collected her things earlier this afternoon and was released." Tom slouched down a little further in his chair. "She found out she was pregnant and asked to be reassigned. Besides the fact that she was struggling with debilitating morning sickness, she couldn't have completed the range work because of the danger to the baby. It was the right call."

"Hm." Alexeev narrowed a look at Tom. "Well, I wasn't that impressed with her performance even before then."

"I think it's fair to say that you haven't been impressed with anyone's performance." He shouldn't rise to Alexeev's bait, but he was exhausted. Dirty and tired, and reeking of gunpowder. And the very last thing that he'd wanted to do this evening was sit in on an impromptu meeting with Commander Sheffield and Lieutenant Alexeev.

"Because none of them are particularly impressive."

"You can't be serious, Jordan." Sheffield cut in, clearly disbelieving. "Tom here has been telling me some good things."

"We've had nearly a thirty percent drop out rate, Sir." Alexeev's brows rose. "You'd think that officers who were prepared for this kind of training would be tougher than that."

"What do you think, Chandler?" The Commander turned from the man on his right to peer across the table towards Tom. "In your opinion, is that drop out rate too high?"

"It's higher than I would have liked, Sir." Tom conceded this with a frown. "But it's not nearly as high as SEAL or Special Ops training sees. Hell, it's not even as high as it is at the FBI Academy at Langley. Personally, I was expecting this kind of attrition."

Jordan snorted. "SEAL training. You can't equate the two. That's just physicality and brute strength. What we're trying to accomplish here is mentally strenuous, rather than just physical conditioning."

Tom couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes on a grin. "No offense, Jordan, but you're wrong about that."

"How am I wrong?"

"SEAL training takes it out of you mentally as well as physically." Scratching at a blotch of mud on his thigh, Chandler kept his eyes off Alexeev's face. "If you think that it's just body building and blowing stuff up, you're mistaken."

Jordan's tone signaled his skepticism. "I suppose you've trained with them?"

Tom's eyes closed against the memories. He could still hear the helicopter blades chopping the air - just before the RPG blew them out of the air. Sometimes he could block the recollection before he heard the cries of the dead and the dying. More often than not, he couldn't. It was worse when the screams he heard were his own. "I have, actually."

Sheffield thrummed his fingertips on the table, his expression sour. "Gentlemen, we aren't here to argue which kind of training is hardest. I asked you both a simple question. What's your assessment about the program thus far? We're heading into a break for Christmas, so if we need to, we can take that time to make the changes that we need in order to produce the best crop of young officers that we can get."

"I would strongly suggest that they learn a little humility." Jordan leaned forward on the table, weaving his fingers together. "What I've seen of this crowd is that they've got too high an opinion of themselves."

"You can't do this work without a healthy dose of cockiness, Alexeev." The Commander twiddled with the pen in his hands. "I'd say that having a little bravado is a positive thing."

"But not when they show blatant insubordination." Brows rising, Alexeev pointed towards Tom. "You've seen it. I know you have."

Chandler tilted his head to one side, pretending to consider this for the slightest moment before answering. "I don't agree that what you've been mentioning rises to the level of insubordination."

"Frandsen - "

"If you're referring to class last Wednesday, Frandsen was right." Flattening his hand on the table, Tom looked down at his dirty fingers as he spoke. "His experience actually living in Russia gives him an advantage in that he knows the people."

"I know the people, too. My grandparents are Russian."

"Who haven't lived there for sixty years." Groaning, Tom pressed his lips together before continuing. "Frandsen was absolutely correct in his assertion that face to face meetings are of far more value to the Russians than written correspondence, or even telephone conversations. Post-Soviet culture carries over social traditions and mores from centuries of Russian civilization, but the difficulties faced by the proletariat have affected communication in exactly the way Frandsen had iterated during that class period. They like to see the person they're talking to. True - their body language is practically non-existent, but you're more likely to gain a Russian's trust and confidence if you speak to them in person rather than over the phone. You were wrong, and he was right. And if you had ever lived in Russia, you would know that."

The other Lieutenant merely sat across the table, stony-faced, as Sheffield glared down at the folders in front of him on the table.

"I apologize if I'm out of line, Sir." Tom sat up in his chair, scooting it backwards with a well-placed move of his heel. "You asked for my opinion, and I gave it. I believe that this group is capable of performing the tasks that will be assigned to them. Obviously, my colleague does not."

"We need to break them down a little." But Alexeev was grasping at straws, and his tone showed that he knew it. "Break them down so that we can build them up."

Sheffield raised his palm to Jordan, shaking his head. "I had a baseball coach who said that to me once. Junior High. I was thirteen and pimply and awkward and barely knew what my own skin felt like anymore. Son of a bitch was hard nosed to the core. Yelling and hollering about every little mistake. By the time the season was half-way done all of us were convinced that we were worthless. Didn't win a single game."

Tom bit back the grin that threatened, suddenly finding a dried mud patch on his knee fascinating. He worried at it with his thumbnail while the Commander continued.

"These people are the cream of the crop. They're the ones that we've already vetted to make sure that they're worthwhile to begin with. They've been recommended by the best of the best. They've been tried and found worthy. It's our job to continue to build on that until they've found their way." Sheffield rolled back in his chair, reaching out to grab his folders with a thoughtful look between Alexeev and Tom. "So yes, we've got to identify places where they need to improve. But it isn't in our best interest to hand them their asses. That's how you lose games."

Tom shoved himself to his feet as the Commander rose, resisting the urge to glare over at his colleague. In silence, he and Jordan both watched as Sheffield stalked through the door, waiting until his footsteps had disappeared down the hall.

"I would appreciate a little support from a subordinate officer." Alexeev's timbre was teetering on the verge of a threat.

Sighing, Tom started to walk towards the door. "I just call it as I see it, Lieutenant."

"Well, maybe you're seeing things a little too closely."

He stopped short, turning only half-way to fix his colleague with a questioning look. "What are you talking about?"

"Just that you seem to be a little chummy with some of the recruits."

"Chummy?"

"Eating lunch with them, studying with them in the library, hanging out with them between classes, constantly open office door." Trailing off, Jordan picked up his notebook and pen with an air of knowing nonchalance. "It just seems to me that the lines are getting hazy."

"What the hell does that mean, Alexeev?"

"You do remember that we are the senior officers, right?"

Narrowing his eyes, Tom clenched his teeth briefly before answering. "That doesn't mean that we need to be arrogant blowhards."

Alexeev shoved his chair back under the table, crossing the room to where Tom still stood near the doorway. "All I'm saying is that I've seen the way that you interact with these kids. You might want to take more care with it. The signals that you're sending some of them might be _misinterpreted_ \- and not just by your fellow senior officers."

"Misinterpreted?"

"You can't treat these kids like equals." Jordan's brows rose. "And you need to be more careful about your relationship with a certain female ensign. That one's going to be a problem for you."

His entire body tense. Tom tilted his head just slightly downward, his mouth tight. "You are way out of line, Alexeev."

The other man stopped just inside the doorway, close enough that when he lowered his voice, Tom could hear him loud and clear. "Am I? I can see it, Tom. I'm not blind. Whatever's there between you is obvious to anyone who knows what they're looking for. You're skating too close to the edge. You might want to back off a bit."

Tom didn't answer at all, merely staring, stony-faced, at the wall just behind the other man. There was a cheaply-framed picture directly in his line of sight - some recruiting poster featuring the Nimitz at sea. There was a plane just leaving the flight deck, and Tom fixed his gaze on it, rather than look anywhere near the other man's face. His supercilious expression made just too damn good of a target right at the moment.

"Oh, and Tom?" Conversational, syrupy, Jordan's voice carried a sententious tone to it. "You also might want to get a shower. The mud isn't a good look for you."

And with that, he sauntered off, throwing an odd look back over his shoulder as he turned the corner towards the stairs.

He was tired. Tired, and smelly, and dirty. And suddenly, he hurt all over - from his exertions practicing on the range or from his ramped-up physical therapy, he couldn't guess. Tom just knew that he needed to get out of the building, off the campus, and somewhere else - _anywhere else_ \- before he followed Alexeev down the stairs and showed the condescending little bastard exactly how close to the edge he was.

-OOOOOOO-

"Sir?"

Tom tilted his head to look up and over the top of his computer monitor. His office door was cracked open, and a face was peering through the opening. "What can I do for you, Shawna?"

The division secretary swung the door open further, leaning only far enough into the office to rest a shoulder against the door jamb. "There's a phone call for you."

"Why didn't you just transfer it in?"

"Well, because first she called my desk line and asked me specifically to walk into your office and make sure that you were here so that she'd have a witness for the upcoming trial."

Puzzled, Tom canted his head to one side. "She?"

Shawna's face brightened into a beatific smile, her brown eyes twinkling. "Your mother."

"And - trial?"

"For when she killed you for dodging her calls."

"Good Lord." Tom frowned. "She figured it out."

"Yeah." A perky nod sent Shawna's dark hair bouncing around her ears. "She said something about 'that demon caller identification' and then told me to 'toodle' myself in here to make sure you were actually in your office before transferring her to your office phone."

"Damn, that woman's getting smarter."

Shawna dealt Tom a withering look. "You could always just stop ignoring your phone."

"True." Tom grinned. "But where would be the fun in that?"

Shrugging, the secretary turned half-way towards the hall before looking back over her shoulder. "She's a great lady, you know. She calls me from time to time. We chat."

Tom sighed, leaning back in his chair. "So, you're Patricia's latest groupie. You realize that I have to fire you now, right?"

"Tom." Shawna stared at him through narrowed eyes. "Talk to your mother."

How had his previously good-natured staff member so perfectly channeled his mother? Chandler's smile faded. "Yes, ma'am."

Apparently satisfied, the secretary returned to her desk. A moment later, Tom's phone rang. He answered it before the first ring had ended.

"Hello?"

"Tommy!"

"Hey, Mom."

"How's my boy?"

"Tired, actually." Tom reached out and fiddled a little with the computer mouse, watching as the cursor slid around his screen. "It's been kind of a long week."

"Oh?" That word, in that precise tone, was an order for details.

Tom obeyed. "I taught an extra class this week, graded three sets of research papers and two tests, helped out on the shooting range three times, been rained, sleeted, hailed, and snowed on, had to change the battery of my truck on the side of the road, and finished editing the first forty pages of my thesis."

"Well, you know what they say about idle hands."

"They're the Devil's tools." One side of his mouth rose in a near-smile. "Yes, I know."

"How is that other teacher you're having to work with?"

Mindi must have told her about Alexeev. "He's a pain. You remember Eddie Molloy?"

"Junior or Senior?"

"Either one. Like father, like son, right?"

Patricia humphed a little. It was as close to a snort as his mother would ever get. "They were certainly alike, weren't they?"

"They were jerks."

"Since Eddie the Elder is no longer with us, I will decline the present opportunity to express my opinion."

"He's dead?"

"Heart attack. Last year." Tom's mother switched her handset from one shoulder to the other. "We didn't go to the funeral, of course. They were still stationed at Fort Lewis when it happened."

"That's kind of a long trip from Georgia."

"Karen was a sweet woman, even if her husband was - " The ever-proper Patricia paused, mulling over the correct word to employ in describing the decedent. She finally settled for simplicity. "Not."

"True."

"It was just a lucky sort of convenience for us that we'd been transferred to Benning before the sad occasion." But she didn't sound sad, and her next words confirmed it. "Because then we didn't have to go and pretend to be upset. I sent flowers with a card."

"Mmm." Tom nodded, even though he knew his mother couldn't see the motion. "Anyway. Returning to the original topic. Lieutenant Alexeev reminds me a lot of Eddie Junior."

"Since Junior is not dead yet, I can commiserate with you and say that must be difficult, working with someone so thoroughly disagreeable."

"I can handle him all right." Scrubbing his chin with his hand, he glared across his desk towards the wall directly across from his desk. It was still bare. "What bugs me is how he treats the junior officers. He has a monster of a superiority complex, and truly believes that he knows more than everyone else. Even those with more first-hand experience than he does. It's incredible."

"It sounds like you could use a little vacation."

He rolled his eyes, smiling into the receiver. "I've already talked with Mindi about Christmas, Mom."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what have you decided?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "I haven't really decided on anything. Stuff is pretty crazy around here right now. With the classes, and with my other work, I'm not sure I can get away."

"Thomas." She had a way of saying a guy's first name that made him take notice. "This might be the last time for years that we can have the whole family here for the holidays. Robbie will be here with his fiancé - well, almost his fiancé - and Mindi will be here with the girls and Chris. Your dad will even be here."

His hand stilled. Frowning, Tom took a moment before answering. "I didn't know Dad was back."

"He's been back for a few weeks." Something about her voice was off. Too quiet, or wary. "He'll be home for a while. Maybe for good."

It took Tom a few breaths to ask. "Is he okay?"

"He will be." Patricia had recouped - or at least wanted Tom to think she had. She was back to being chirpy. "He will be. But I know that he'd love to have the entire family around for Christmas. I've already checked. I know that you have time off. Two full weeks. You can spare one of them to be with your family."

"Mom - " She was right, but Tom still faltered. "It just always seems to be so damned difficult. Especially with Dad."

"Well, that's because he's a stubborn old goat, and you're an ornery young know-it-all."

Despite himself, Tom laughed. "You hit that nail right on the head."

"I know I did. Don't you remember? I'm The Great and Powerful Mom."

"And you know everything."

"Darn straight, I do." She paused, her silence more communicative than anything she'd said up until that moment. When she was ready, she continued. "You have to make peace with him sometime, son."

"I know." And he did. Truly - he just wasn't certain that his father was ready to do the same.

"Might as well be at Christmas, right?"

Well, damn. Now he had to go to Georgia.


	11. Denial's Nice this Time of Year

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **Denial's Nice this Time of Year**_

"So, did your mom get ahold of you?"

Startled, Tom looked up and over his left shoulder to see Commander Sheffield standing behind him. He was in civvies - probably due to the fact that classes had ended the day before, and there weren't any students on campus. Still, it felt odd to see the little man wearing corduroys and a thick sweater rather than his uniform.

"How did you know about my mom?

"Shawna told me. She's a chatty little thing."

"That, she is."

"Anyhow, have you decided to get out of here for Christmas?"

Tom closed the book he'd been browsing his way through, clicking his pen closed and laying it on his notepad. Swiveling his chair around, he rose. "I have, actually. I'm leaving this afternoon."

"Driving or flying?"

"Driving. It's last minute, so I couldn't find a decent deal for commercial air, and there weren't any available transports to hop." Tom took a moment to gather up the materials he'd spread around the library table. He'd spent the morning looking up some more obscure references for the next part of his thesis. He figured he'd use the downtime during the week at his parents' house to glean what he could. "So, I'll just drive until I'm tired and find a motel."

"Ah, to be young and free." Sheffield smiled - a little wistfully. "I remember how it was to be able to just pick up and go."

"I'm guessing that it's harder once you have a family."

"Nigh unto impossible." The Commander's eyes went wide. "The wife practically needs an entire trailer for her wardrobe and makeup, so between her and the girls, I'm totally screwed. Can't make it out of town without remembering one of them has forgotten something vital, and then I have to find a drugstore or a beauty supply so that they can replace the needed item. Poor Ollie and I just sit in the car and twiddle our thumbs."

"You have four kids, right?"

"Yep." Rocking forward on the toes of his loafers, Sheffield nodded. "Three girls and then my boy. I complain about them, but I wouldn't trade them for the world."

"I can imagine." Tom smiled, grabbing his backpack and starting to load his books and notebooks. "I have a pair of nieces that are a lot of fun."

Sheffield shot Tom a speculative look, watching as the younger man zipped up the pack and then threw his coat over his shoulders. "It's different when they're your own."

"I'm sure." Tom zipped his coat and then picked up his pack.

"Come on, son." The Commander gestured vaguely towards the entrance of the library with his chin. "I'll walk you out."

The older man waited to speak again until the library doors had closed behind them. Their footsteps sounded loud in the hallway. This was the older part of the College, a genteel old building with hardwood wainscoting and marble floors. Tom's office and the majority of the classrooms were in the newer buildings, and while they carried the technological advances which made the internet and modern communications possible, they lacked the quiet elegance of original buildings.

Of course, without students and the activity that came with regular College business, the halls seemed empty and more cavernous than grandiose. When Sheffield spoke again, his voice echoed in the emptiness. "Have you ever thought about settling down and having kids, Tom?"

Despite himself, Tom grinned. "Have you been talking to my mother, too?"

"Nope." His white head waggled from side to side. "Your dad and I have been friendly throughout the years, though."

That surprised Tom. "I wasn't aware that you and my father knew each other."

"We've run into each other from time to time. He was at your War College graduation a few years ago, and we put two and two together. Trap rattling, you know. Two old soldiers passing the time and remembering our glory days."

Nodding, Tom made a noise that he hoped was one of understanding.

Sheffield apparently accepted it as such. "Anyhow, I've found that settling down and establishing a family is a good thing for a sailor. It makes the mission more meaningful if you have something to come home to."

"Or someone."

"Exactly."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"It's not like I'm ordering you to go find a wife." The Commander sent Tom a sideways grin. "I'm just giving you a little advice."

"So that I can be as blissfully happy as Alexeev?"

The little man emitted a little bark of laughter. Shaking his head, he paused as they approached the main foyer. "Damn, but that man is impossible."

Stopping alongside his CO, Tom tried not to agree to strongly, but found himself nodding all the same. With a little grimace, he looked down at his shoes. "I'm sorry, Sir. I wasn't trying to be insubordinate."

"I know." With a quick glance around, Sheffield leaned in towards Tom with a conspiratorial air. "Now, I know that the meeting the other day didn't go as I'd planned. I don't think that the recruits are as hopeless as Jordan makes them out to be, either. But he did make a few good points. I'm going to level with you. I've asked him to make me a list detailing his opinions of each of the junior officers, their strengths and weaknesses, and his concerns about each of them. I'd like for you to do the same. Normally, we'd do assessments and judge things by how well they qualify, but this is a new animal we're looking at here, and I'd like a frank and honest take on the students by each of you."

A weight settled over Tom's shoulders that had nothing to do with the extra books in his backpack. "I think I've already expressed my opinions about them, Sir. I'm not sure what else you're looking for."

"Insights. Honest insights about them. Strengths, weaknesses, possible issues that they might face due to their understanding of culture and language. Personal failings. This is the safety of our nation we're talking about. We've vetted them in a security-clearance sense, but we need to vet them on a personal basis."

"Yes, Sir."

"I've got higher-ups than me asking for this, Tom, so I really need this to be done in a thorough and forthright manner."

"Understood."

Placing a hand on the handle of the door, Sheffield turned to cast a look outward towards the chilly sunlight outside. His breath made little clouds on the glass set into the heavy panel. "For the record, Tom, I know that you're a scrupulous sort, and that you're not one to push the limits. I can count on you to always walk the line."

"I try, Sir."

"And you succeed." Sheffield screwed his lips tight before going on. "Alexeev has said some things. Mentioned that you and a few of the recruits might be a little too chummy. I'm not accusing you of doing anything - believe me - I would trust you over him in a heartbeat. But Jordan's been making some not-so-veiled comments about it, and I wanted to give you a head's up."

Tom's jaw worked for a few moments before he could respond to that. "I haven't knowingly acted in any way that is contrary to the code, Sir."

Sheffield's eyes caught him straight on - intent and sincere. "I know. I just thought that you needed to be aware of what he's saying. You might want to be a little more circumspect where there are prying, judgmental eyes."

"Right."

"Just between you and me, I don't think that he's actually got anything on you. I think that he's jealous that the entire class, the office staff, and the majority of the teaching faculty favor you over him. But you might want to back off a little bit. Just to give him an opportunity to get to know these juniors a little bit better. Understood?"

"Yes Sir." Dropping his chin, Tom glared down at the floor, focusing on a single taupe vein working its way across the cream-colored marble. "I appreciate your advice."

"Good." Sheffield let out a little breath - apparently relieved. "So, have a nice time with your family in Georgia. And get me those reports first thing when you get back."

"Yes, Sir."

For a moment more, he simply stood there, studying Tom's expression. Apparently satisfied, the Commander nodded exactly once - a precise, disciplined movement. And then, with a push of the door and a rush of cold wind, he was gone.

Tom's eyes closed on a broken exhale.

Damn it. He thought he'd been handling it. He thought that he'd finally reached a state of equanimity where he could be around her without losing himself in reckless imaginings. Where he could be near her and not itch to touch her, to lean close and feel her warmth. Where a passing whiff of her essence wasn't enough to send his mind hurtling off into realms inhabited by haunting memories of tumbled-warm skin and the fulfillment of her touch.

He'd treated her exactly as he'd treated the rest of the class, hadn't he?

To be fair, Sheffield hadn't been specific about any of the recruits in particular. Tom had a bad feeling that the fact that his mind swung immediately to Sasha was a sign that he hadn't progressed quite as far as he'd hoped in the quest to put her behind him.

He was choosing not to think about how often she still inhabited his dreams, choosing not to interpret his intense distaste at the thought of dating anyone else. He'd told Wilson the other day that he was more comfortable being alone, right now. That there wasn't the time for dating or relationships. Not when he had so much else to do.

Denial could be salvation.

Two weeks. He had two weeks to purge her from his system. Fourteen days to find his focus, restore his center, and expunge her from his system.

He'd already packed. After his conversation a few days before with his mother, he'd quickly made the necessary arrangements for his trip. Walking quickly, he would reach his truck in twenty minutes. Even with the snow, he'd make it home in twenty more. All he had to do was grab his pack, get the bag he'd prepared with the gifts he'd bought, and hit the road. If he was lucky, he'd be able to get past DC and would find a motel in Virginia somewhere near midnight. By dinner tomorrow, he'd be playing Go Fish with Jenny and Sylvie.

It'd be a long day, but it would give him exactly what he needed.

Distance.

Pushing his way through the door, he headed out into the cold afternoon. His boots crunched through the old snow as he stepped off the pathways and struck out across the main lawns. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, he tried to ignore the slight edge of dread that was cutting into his gut. He was more than a little disappointed in himself. But beyond anything else, he was frustrated with the situation.

He'd finally found a woman who filled him, body and soul, and she was completely beyond his reach. By choice or by code - it didn't matter. All that did count was that he was still alone, when what he wanted was to be with her.

Damn it.

The snow had mostly melted in the parking lot, creating a soupy mess of icy mud framed by heaps of dirty snow. Picking his way through the worst of it, he headed directly for his truck, myopic in his aim. Truck. Home. Pack. Georgia. Nothing else in that moment mattered.

"Lieutenant!"

Footsteps sounded behind him. The vague shushings of fabric against fabric, and a muttered curse. Tom paused, clenching his teeth as he turned towards the too-familiar voice.

"Tom!"

Frowning, Tom stopped completely, watching as Sasha danced her way around the puddles. When she was a few yards away, he sighed. "So now you're lying in wait for me in the parking lot?"

She grinned widely, her cheeks pinked by the cold and her exertion. "Right. I'm stalking you and this beast you call a truck."

"Well, you're training to be a spy." It felt so natural - this easy banter. Tom hated that fact as much as he exulted in it. "So, stalking is probably good training."

"Exactly!" Her laughter made little clouds in the frigid air. "I need to find more targets than just you, though."

"Why, am I boring you?"

"Kind of." She took a few steps closer, standing closely enough that he could see an errant snowflake perched on her eyebrow. "You're too predictable. Office, library, classroom, shooting range. Your routine is solid. I haven't even seen you in the mess for a while, so my guess is that you're eating at your desk."

"Guilty as charged." Tom allowed a smile to escape. "There's a fridge and a microwave in the staff lounge."

"Don't tell me that you're subsisting on those prepackaged frozen boxed things?"

"Not quite. Leftovers, mostly. Or soups. That kind of thing."

"A far cry from The Charthouse."

As if she'd needed to bring up that memory. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her sitting across from him at that table, with her hair tumbling like silk around her shoulders, the candlelight limning her skin with a golden glow. His pulse surged just thinking about it, and it took two tries before he could answer past the ache in his throat. "True."

"Anyhow, can I ask you something?"

Tom watched as she worked at a thick bit of sludge on the ground with the toe of her boot. "What?"

"This. What we're doing right now." She twiddled a finger between them in an odd, hesitant gesture. "Is this a friendship thing, or is this a senior officer speaking with a subordinate?"

"I don't know." He found himself shrugging. "Which would you prefer?"

Shoving her hand back deep into the pocket of her coat, she scrunched up her nose a little. "I'd rather do the friend thing right now."

"Okay."

"I have a favor to ask."

"What kind of favor?"

"A weird one. Feel free to say no."

For a long moment, he merely studied her face, watching the myriad of emotions that played across her lovely features. "What do you need?"

"Well, it's Christmas."

"It is."

"And my parents are coming into town."

"And that's a problem?"

"They're going to try to talk me out of this - whole thing that I'm doing." She sounded odd. A little breathless and rushed. As if she'd worked up her courage to be having this conversation. "They've already told me that they have spoken with friends at the Pentagon about getting me out of the Navy early. I think it's the only reason that they're coming here."

Tom risked a look directly at her, and was immediately sorry he had. She was scared - uncertain, and insecure. His heart lurched, and all he wanted to do was pull her close and reassure her. But with Sheffield's words still bouncing around his head, he stayed where he was, instead. "That doesn't sound like a very pleasant holiday."

"It's the first time I've seen them in a couple of years. They spent the last two Christmases in Switzerland, and I was busy at the Academy, so - " she trailed off with a weary sort of shrug.

"And how am I supposed to help you with this?"

"Well, we've got a few weeks off. I was kind of hoping that maybe - if it's not too much trouble - maybe you could hang out with me and my mom and dad. Be a buffer."

"A buffer."

"They wouldn't have to know exactly who you are. We could make something up. You could be a close friend or a new boyfriend or something. But they'll have a harder time ganging up on me if someone else is omnipresent."

"So, you'd like to go back to the Five Days agreement."

"No. Not really." But she tilted her head to one side, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. "Maybe. Kind of. In a way."

"Sasha - "

"We wouldn't break any regs. I swear to you. We'd keep our distance. We wouldn't put ourselves in any situation where things could happen. I know that's important to you."

"How on earth do you expect to be able to keep that promise?"

"What do you mean?"

Tom lifted his head, making a cursory examination of the parking lot. It was empty, except for his truck and Sasha's - parked several rows away. Empty and cold and mucky. Nobody was around to witness anything that might cast aspersions on either of them - and those who might be around were too far away to even make out faces or hear what they were saying.

He'd told her that they could be friends, though. He'd tried to keep things professional, and light, and easy between them, and still it hadn't been enough. Alexeev had caught wind of something that had piqued his suspicions. It was only a matter of time before he made more than pointed comments and veiled threats.

"What I'm saying is that we can't just wave a magic wand and wish away what happened." Tom's voice was low, nearly carried away by the unabating wind. "We said that we could be friends, and it's been okay. We've been working together all right. Keeping things above board, right?"

"Right. I thought that's what we'd decided."

"But all that wishing and deciding, Sasha." His jaw was tight as he shook his head, his eyes capturing hers. "It doesn't really change anything, does it? It doesn't change anything important."

She knew exactly what he meant - Tom could tell by the way her smile broke around the edges, by the way her eyes drifted down towards his lips and then away from his face. Frowning, she ducked her chin down into the folds of her scarf, her brows drawn low. "You're probably right."

"Besides, I'm going to Georgia to spend Christmas with my family. My little sister is pregnant again, and my father's in town, and my brother is supposed to be announcing his engagement. The plans are all made."

"You're leaving." It wasn't quite panic that shined in her tone, but it was close.

"Right now, actually. I'll be dropping by my apartment for my stuff and then I'm hitting the road."

"When will you be back?"

He didn't answer right away, instead he simply stood there, looking at her. Her provocative blue eyes were huge in a face gone suddenly pale, her lips drawn into a tight sham of a smile. He clenched his hands into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. "In a week or so. Maybe. It depends on several things. Weather, and family and stuff."

"Oh." Sasha nodded, blinking against the wind, or the news, or the odd brightness in her eyes. "Well then, never mind. I'll figure this out on my own."

"Sasha."

But she'd already turned halfway towards her car, looking downward to plan her best course through the mire.

Tom tried again, a little louder. "Sasha."

With a little shake of her head, she stopped, throwing him a half-look over her shoulder. "What?"

And damning himself for a thousand kinds of fool, he stepped towards her, drawing his hands from his pockets. "Come here."

"What do you want?"

"Just come here."

And how easy it was, for her to take the few steps required to placed her within reach. How right it felt to fold his arms around her shoulders and pull her close. And even as he held her body tightly against his own, infusing her with some of his own strength, he could lie to himself that he was merely being supportive - that he was offering strength to a friend in need.

But his lips stubbornly grazed the exquisite softness of her hair, and his palms melded themselves to her form, finding her shape beneath the bulky coat and scarf - probably more from memory than from anything else. And her breath against his throat kindled an ache deep within, reigniting fires that he'd pretended had been squelched. She nuzzled closer, turning her cheek against his chest, her eyelashes resting like dark fans against her cheek. Somehow, he pulled her even closer, absorbing the trembles that traveled through her body, ridiculously satisfied when she finally sighed and calmed against him.

"You'll be fine, Sasha." He spoke against her hair, slick and soft against his cheek. "Just stand up for yourself and you'll be okay."

"You've never met them."

"True." He smiled, breathing her in. "But I know you. And you're pretty damned incredible. If they can't recognize that, then that's their loss."

She nodded, pressing herself just a heartbeat closer before releasing her hold on him and leaning backwards to look up at him. "For the record, I wasn't stalking you. I forgot some books in my locker, and just happened to see you across the parking lot."

"I really didn't think you were following me." He smiled. "And I am truly sorry I can't help you this week."

Blinking, she looked off into the distance, towards the deserted campus, or perhaps beyond it. "I'm such a freaking weakling. I - " but she didn't finish her thought, merely gave up on speaking with a lazy shrug.

"Call me, if you need to." That wasn't going to cross any lines, right? A phone call between friend and colleagues, separated by more than a thousand miles. "If you need to talk."

"Really?" Her fingers brushed against the soft leather of his coat. "I don't want to be a pain in the butt."

"Too late."

She giggled a little, running her finger along the stitching next to the zipper on his coat. For some reason, the gesture was wrenchingly intimate, enough so that Tom realized the danger he was in. How close he was to his breaking point.

From somewhere deep within, Tom found the strength to gently push away from her. Trying to salvage his self-control, he looked anywhere but at her, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and then stepping backwards towards his truck. Stupid. This whole thing had been profoundly stupid. And so was his offer, but he couldn't really un-make it, even if it would be the smart thing to do. Intelligent action, however, didn't seem to be feasible with Sasha Tierney within reach. "You know the number."

She nodded, stilted, and slow. "Okay. Have fun in Georgia."

"You can do this, Sasha."

But she looked decidedly unconvinced, flashing him a too-bright smile, her hand rising in a frail sort of wave. Her eyes captured his for the space of a half-dozen heartbeats before she finally turned and made her way through the puddles to her car.


	12. What Should Be, Isn't

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **What Should Be, Isn't**_

"So, are you glad you came?"

Tom looked up from the screen of his laptop, blinking into the darkness. His sister had snuck up on him, as usual. Only, instead of the traditional Nerf dart to the back of the head, she'd broadsided him with a question.

"Yeah." Nodding, he gestured towards the chair next to him. He'd claimed the back porch as his quasi-office during this visit, since he was sharing a bedroom with not one, but both of his nieces. He was using a blow-up mattress on the floor, while Sylvie and Jenny got the bunks that he and Rob had once shared. The true guest rooms with their queen sized beds and privacy had been reserved for Mindi and Rob and their significant others. "It feels weird being here rather than being in Washington, though."

"I'm still kind of in shock that Dad requested the transfer." Mindi walked around and sat sideways in the big chair, pulling her sweater more tightly around her body. Throwing her legs over the arm of the seat, she settled in. "I thought he'd stay at Fort Lewis until he retired."

"I thought he'd stay there until he keeled over." Tom snorted, the sound completely devoid of humor. "Although I'm pretty sure that he's still alive because he's not eligible for heaven and the devil sees him as a threat."

"Tommy." She'd used her Mom voice, but the quick flash of white betrayed the fact that she'd smiled. "He's making an attempt."

Reaching out, Tom lowered the screen of his computer, closing it with a sharp 'click'. Settling it on the table next to him, he hunkered down in his chair. He'd pulled a space heater out earlier that evening, but the little gadget was chugging along without accomplishing much. The porch had been outfitted with walls and windows by some unknown previous owner of the house, but they'd neglected to fill in cracks or insulate the addition, and the cold seeped steadily in to overwhelm any attempts to regulate the temperature. The association between the temperature of the porch and the chilly relationship between he and his father wasn't lost on Tom. "He is. I'll admit that. I'm just wondering whether it's too late."

"Speaking as a mother, I can tell you honestly that it's never too late." Mindi's voice was quiet, contemplative. "I can't imagine ever getting to the point where I would quit trying to connect with one of my kids."

"But we're not talking about Mom, are we?"

"No, but Dad isn't a monster, Tom. He's just a dad. And he's human, just like you and me. All parents are fallible. You do the best you can in the situations you're given and then hope that the therapists can sort it all out later."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're probably right."

"I'm always right." She curled her feet up under her body. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

"It's beginning to dawn on me."

"Well, you've always been a little slow."

"Brat."

"Loser."

It felt good to be home - well, as much of a home as a military kid could have. Even through his father's long tenure at Fort Lewis, they'd bounced around from house to house. Most people could point to one of two residences where the majority of their early lives had been lived. The children of military men had no such luxury. The family unit, rather than any particular physical dwelling, comprised what they termed as 'home'. In Tom's case, that unit rarely included his father.

But still, spending long days in the same house with his mom, Mindi, and Rob had been comforting in a way. Even though he had no childhood memories of the actual house, it still felt like he'd returned home from somewhere. And his father - well, that wasn't turning out to be quite as complicated as he'd feared. The Old Man had mellowed a bit, softening a little around the edges. Maybe it was age, or maybe it was the unmitigated cuteness of Sylvie and Jenny that was responsible for the change - Tom hadn't yet been able to figure it out. Something had changed, but the 'what' portion of that question was still up in the air.

"But to answer your original question, yes." Tom looked over at Pipsqueak. She hadn't changed much since marriage and motherhood. She was maybe a little rounder than she'd been the last time Tom had actually seen her, but it didn't detract from the beautiful, remarkable woman she'd become. She'd been meant for this role in life - nurturing people had always been second nature to her. Before Jenny and Sylvie, she'd devoted herself to the kids in her various school classes. Now that she was a mom, she'd expanded her heart to include pretty much any kid she saw. Tom sometimes felt like she had folded him in with the rest of her children. It was just how she was. "Yes. It's really good to be here."

"So - what do you think about Sophia?"

"Sophia." Tom's eyes narrowed as he mulled over his answer. "Sophia is perfect for Rob."

"Holy cow, yes." Mindi grinned. "They're two Yuppie peas in a very ambitious pod."

Snorting, Tom canted his head in an inquisitive look at his sister. "Are Yuppies even still a thing?"

"She drives a Volvo." Her expression indicated that the assertion had been proved.

Tom waved his hand in an attempt at concession. "When are they heading to New York?"

"After the New Year. She's got an internship or something at some big brokerage."

"Rob told me that he's been interviewing with a few places."

Mindi leaned her cheek against the cushion of the chair. "Sophie's family is from the area. I'm sure they'll settle down there."

Tom picked at a loose piece of wicker on the arm of his chair. "Any guesses on how much that ring is worth?"

"The engagement ring?" Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Pipsqueak shook her head. "Probably more than both of my cars combined. Rob told me that it was a family stone, and he just had it reset into the ring that Sophia liked. He couldn't have afforded that monstrosity on his own."

"I'm surprised she's not walking around with armed guards."

"Well, you're here, Mr. Military Macho Man." Grinning, Mindi kicked a toe in Tom's direction. "If anyone tries to take off with it, you'll save the day."

"You betcha." Tom grinned back. "That's what I do."

For a moment, they fell silent. The space heater chortled in its corner, the only sound in the chilly air. Tom's mom and brother seemed to find it necessary to keep any conversation going - they had an odd aversion to quietude - but Tom and Mindi had always been comfortable just sitting in silence. Maybe it was because they were the older siblings - the ones given the most responsibility. Or perhaps it was just that they were more alike than anyone else in the family. It didn't matter, really. It just was. And it was part of why Tom loved his little sister so much. She understood him.

Kind of like Sasha.

He frowned, glancing involuntarily at his phone. It hadn't so much as buzzed since he'd left Newport. Six days without any contact whatsoever, and he had to admit to himself that he was a little - something. Worried? Relieved? Lost? Not that he'd had a whole lot of time to dwell on the matter. Christmas preparations and celebrations had filled the first few days, and then the days after Christmas had been spent teaching Jenny how to ride her new bike and playing with Sylvie and her play kitchen. Whatever free time he'd had had been spent in his 'office' working on his thesis.

He'd anticipated something out of Newport. Anything, really. Exactly what, he didn't know, but more than abject silence.

"Are you expecting a call?"

Startled, Tom looked up at his sister. "What?"

"A call." Mindi indicated his cell with a pointed nod. "You've been fiddling with that thing ever since you got here. Is there something that you're missing back in Newport?"

Something? No.

 _Someone_?

Tom flicked at the device with his fingertips, turning it over on the table. "One of my students was running into some issues. I told her to call if she needed anything."

"Her?"

Damn it. Pipsqueak never missed anything. "Just a student, Mindi."

"I'm sorry." Mindi's brows rose. "That answer doesn't compute. Please try again."

Tom swizzled the phone a little on the table, making it turn in circles by nudging it with his index finger. "I'm telling you the truth."

"And, you think I'm stupid - why?"

"I don't think you're stupid."

"Thomas."

Oh, the dreaded Mom/Teacher/Pipsqueak tone. Tom heaved a sigh and shoved both sets of fingers through the tousled mess that was his hair. "Mindi, it's a weird situation."

"We've already decided that she's complicated."

"Good lord, yes." Complicated was precisely the right word to describe Sasha Tierney. "She's that in spades."

"So, it _is_ the girl that you'd dated."

There was no point denying it. His littler sister could ferret the truth out of anybody - Tom was realistic enough to know that he didn't stand a chance. He bought a little thinking time by pretending to be very particular about recrossing his ankles on the table, but Mindi saw through that and cleared her throat pointedly.

"Her parents are in Newport for the holidays." Tom folded his arms across his chest. "Apparently, there's friction there. She'd asked me to hang around and act as her buffer, but I was already heading down here."

"Friction?" Mindi frowned. "You mean like between you and dad?"

Shaking his head, Tom grimaced. "Worse, I think. They're kind of high and mighty muckity-mucks. Her mother used to be a U.S. Ambassador. They aren't too thrilled that she joined the Navy, and are intent upon getting her to resign her commission and put her skills to use elsewhere."

"Well, that's crappy."

"She's happy where she is." He sighed. "They should just let her be."

"She's an adult, right?" Mindi tugged her sweater down past her fingertips. "Why is it their business what she does?"

"Sasha is an only child. I think that they expected her to follow in their footsteps rather than making her own." Tom pulled his feet off the table and stood, taking a few steps towards a matching wicker love seat where their mother kept a selection of quilts draped over the back. Grabbing one, he leaned over and tossed it at his sister, who caught it handily. "But I've never met them. All of my information comes from her."

"And she asked you to what - be her fake boyfriend?"

"Basically."

"Maybe she wanted you to be her not-so-fake boyfriend."

Tom sat back down in his chair, hunkering back down against the cushions. "She knows that's not possible."

"Does she?"

Tom glared down at his feet. His shoes were nearly worn through. He'd need to buy new ones soon. Maybe he'd drag Jenny and Sylvie to the mall tomorrow. Chris had been telling him that they had a carousel there. Or he could take them to one of those places where they let kids stuff their own bears. At the very least, a day bribing his nieces would take his mind off his silent phone.

"Tommy?"

"She knows."

But Mindi was still looking at him with a speculative gleam in her eye. "Do _you_?"

A sudden ache in his throat forced him to swallow before he could answer. "Yeah. I do."

"But you don't like it."

"No." He could be honest, here. Sitting on this porch with the one person in the world who he trusted beyond reason. He could admit things without fear or repercussion. For the first time, he could actually admit the truth. "No. I don't."

She didn't say anything, but Tom could feel her eyes on him, knew that her expression had turned from inquisitive to compassionate. He lifted his hands, pressing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Damn, what a mess. And what a failure he was for not being able to just move on. It wasn't just the struggle of wanting what he couldn't have that was killing him. It was not being able to let her go.

"Tell me about her." Mindi shifted in her chair, tucking her feet under her body. Pulling the quilt up under her chin, she merely sat back and waited.

What was there to say? Sasha Tierney was a force of nature. She reminded him of a storm at sea - beautiful and unpredictable and powerful. She was the kind of woman that made him want to be a better man. She made him want to be good enough for her.

When he finally spoke, he had to fight that damned lump again. "She's sassy. She says things that surprise me. She makes me laugh."

"What does she look like?"

"Dark hair. Tall - a little taller than you are. She's in great shape, of course. She's a beast at hand-to-hand. Fantastic shot, too. Sniper material. Blue eyes. Like _blue_ , blue eyes. She's really, really pretty."

"How does she make you feel?"

"Good." What a majestic bit of understatement that was. Tom rubbed his fingertips across the rough fabric of his jeans. "Like I can do anything."

"That's a good thing."

"She speaks who-knows-how many languages, has lived all over the world. She's seen things that the majority of the people on the planet don't even know exist. She's lived in the heart of luxury and privilege. And you know what makes her happy?"

Mindy shook her head, her eyes wide. "Tell me."

"Stacking stones on the beach. She found this place near the pier where the beach is secluded - cut off from the boardwalk. People have been piling rocks on top of each other. Nothing fancy - just making these tall stone towers. And who the hell knows why. She took me down there. It was before I knew that she was Navy, so we were still - together." Tom smiled down at his hands. "Anyway, it took her forever to find the perfect rock. She must have picked up and examined at least a dozen before she chose the one that she wanted. She finally got it balanced exactly how she wanted it, and when she stood back up, she had this expression on her face - "

He faltered, his eyes drifting closed briefly on the memory. "She looked like a kid at Christmas. Like she was experiencing pure joy." When he glanced up at his sister, he wasn't surprised to see her smiling over at him. "But it was just rocks, you know? All she'd done was find a rock that she liked."

"It was more than that, Tom." Mindi narrowed a look at him. "She'd found someone to share it with. She wasn't just excited about the rock. She was happy that she'd found it with you."

Tom rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, tilting his head back with a groan. "After she stacked her rock, she found one for me. I was just standing there, watching her. I didn't know what she wanted me to do, you know? So, I just stayed out of her way. And then some kid drops a milkshake on my head."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I were." Tom looked down towards his feet, fully aware that his sister was enjoying this a little too much. "Sasha could not stop laughing. She thought that was the funniest thing ever. So, I'm stalking up to the boardwalk, covered in ice cream, and it's oozing through my clothes and down my pants, and she's giggling herself silly. I'm there with milkshake running down my ass, and she's crying with laughter. She didn't stop until we got to her hotel."

"You didn't go home?"

"It was our last day. We had an - agreement. We could be together for five days. It's a long story." He tried not to sound bitter, but was pretty certain he'd failed. "She said she had some extra clothes in her hotel room, and my apartment was pretty far from where we were. We'd lose less time if I just showered at her place."

"Really." The corner of his sister's mouth edged upwards. "How very efficient."

"It wasn't like that." _Yet_. But Tom had no intention of sharing that much. Certain things needed to be kept to himself.

"Mmm-hmm." Blatant skepticism radiated in her tone, and Mindi's brows rose high. "So?"

"So, she knew that I'd been injured. I told her that I'd been in an accident. After I got cleaned up, she saw the scars - the damage." A flickered glanced up at his sister told Tom that she understood completely. "I expected her to be grossed out. I mean - she didn't know the extent of things, of the burns, or the surgeries - she didn't have any idea. But when she saw it, she wasn't disgusted, or scared, or anything like that. Hell - she didn't even pity me. She just accepted it. She just accepted me."

"Tom, you're more than what happened to you." Leaning forward, Pipsqueak balanced her chin on her hand.

"I know that."

"I don't think that you do."

"Okay." Tom conceded. "I'm learning it."

"But this girl sounds like the kind of person who could make you realize it faster."

"She's amazing, Min." Tom's voice came out in a low whisper. "She's maddening. She's a total pain in the butt, and a complete smart-mouth. She's pushy and intelligent and fascinating. She makes me think. She makes me laugh. She makes me want - things."

"What kinds of things?" Soft, her question was gentle. "Sex? Or something more than that?"

"A future." Tom only realized the truth of it as he said it. "I want a future with her."

"You're in love with her."

"I can't be."

"But you are."

"No." Tom shook his head. "That can't happen."

But his sister just smiled sadly, sighing into the cold night air. "Oh, Tommy, you poor, big, handsome loser. I think it already has."

-OOOOOOO-

"Hey, Tommy." The voice had come from the garage. "Come here for a minute, will you?"

Sliding the door of Mindi's van closed, Tom shooed his charges up the porch and towards the front door. Each of them carried a cardboard box shaped like a house, along with a shopping bag filled with their treasures. Turns out that stuffing one's own bear also required dropping half a pay check on clothing and shoes and accessories for the newly stuffed ursine. The shoes he'd bought himself had been cheap in comparison, and they hadn't even been on sale.

Seeing the door swing shut behind Sylvie and Jenny, he stowed his keys in his pocket and headed through the open side door and into his father's workshop. Even in the new house, the shop was the same. Same tools, same makeshift work benches, same rickety ladder that Tom had used his entire life while cleaning gutters and trimming trees. It even smelled the same - like wood shavings, rust, and WD-40.

He blinked a little, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows inside. It only took a moment to make out the bulky shape of his dad near the opposite wall, sitting on a stool near a long table that was littered with bits and pieces of something mechanical.

Rounding an ancient table saw, Tom made his way towards his father. "What's all this, Dad?"

Jed fiddled with a bolt that he had in his hand. "Radio. This one used to be your grandpa's. I'm trying to fix it up so that it's usable again."

"HAM?"

Jed nodded. "It's an old one. A 1958 EF Johnson Ranger. State of the art in its day. This one belonged to your mother's father. He used to have regular conversations with Barry Goldwater on it."

"No kidding?"

"True story. Goldwater was a HAM. Belonged to some radio clubs in Arizona. Actually ran one of them. His call sign was K7UGA." Jed nodded, tossing the bolt down onto his workbench. "Your grandpa got a kick out of telling people that he used to converse regularly with the guy who was almost the president."

"I didn't know that."

"Your mother was never really interested in radios. I'm not sure that she ever knew to tell you."

"Hmm." Tom reached out and picked up what looked like an elongated light bulb. "What's this thing?"

"That's a vacuum tube. Way back in the '20s and '30s, HAMS used to make their own radios. They'd jerry-rig these things into these setups that they used to call 'glow bugs'. I was thinking about trying to make one myself, but I haven't been able to find the vacuum tubes."

"Maybe there's a place on-line that sells them."

"On the computer?"

"Sure." Tom rolled the vacuum tube in his fingers. "You can get all kinds of things on-line these days."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

"I could look around, next time I'm connected to the internet." He handed the tube to his father, who placed it carefully on the wooden surface of his work space. "Wouldn't be any trouble."

"Okay." Jed nodded. "While you're at it, you can find me a Collins S-Line 75 A-4. Those receivers are hard to find in good shape."

"I'm sure they are." Tommy pressed his lips together before continuing. "But I'm pretty sure that you didn't call me in here to talk about glowbugs and antique radios."

For a long moment, Jed simply glared down at the assorted bits of metal and gadgetry on his table. Then, he exhaled heavily. "No. I didn't."

For the first time, the old man really looked old. Tired - perhaps a little weary of life. It had been too long since Tom had spent any meaningful time with his father - just a few days between deployments and schooling and assignments. When he called home, his father merely handed him off to his mother, an arrangement that seemed to have been both mutually agreeable and acceptable. But now - Tom leaned against the workbench, noticing things that he hadn't had a chance to notice before. More gray in his father's hair, heavy bags under his eyes, deep lines in his forehead. And he was paler than he'd ever been. "Are you okay, Dad?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?" Tom's brows drew low, a crinkle forming on the bridge of his nose. "I know that we haven't really had a chance to talk to each other while I've been here, but I've noticed that you've been looking a little rougher than normal."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Just that you're looking old."

"I _am_ old, Thomas." Jed nearly spit the word. "Ancient. Useless as tits on a bull."

"Dad. I'm not trying to start a fight."

"You're calling me old."

"I just said - " Groaning, Tom wrenched himself upright. "I didn't call you old. I just said that you're looking a little worse for the wear. I was showing concern."

"And somehow that's better?"

"Dad. Please."

Jed glared at his son before turning and picking up a screwdriver. "Forget it. I just wanted to have a talk with you, but it seems that nothing has changed."

"Oh, come on." Tommy turned, leaning his back against the edge of the bench, gathering his patience back up around him. "You know how I meant it."

"Go back inside, Tom." Fiddling with one of the many disembodied gauges on the table, Jed waved a dismissive hand at his son. "Here I thought that we could have a decent conversation, but - "

Muttering an expletive, Tom pushed off from the table and took several steps towards the door. He'd reached the table saw when he heard his father toss the gauge back down onto the table with a wretched sort of sigh.

"Tommy."

"What?" With another roll of his eyes, Tom stopped, shoving his hands down into his pockets as he spun a quarter-turn back towards his dad. " _What_?"

"Your mom's sick." Jed's voice was uncertain, weak, and thready. Once he'd spoken, he didn't seem to be able to stop talking. "She didn't want me to tell you all at Christmas, because she didn't want to ruin the holiday."

Tom's stomach dropped, his heart skipping a few beats before continuing at a quicker pace. "What do you mean, 'sick'?"

"She's sick. Really sick." Jed's stool creaked as he spun towards his son. "She'd been feeling poorly for a few weeks, and I finally convinced her to go get checked out. They did some tests. Blood tests, MRI, biopsies, the whole she-bang."

"And?"

"She's got cancer. Leukemia of some sort. I can't remember the right terms. Damned name's a million words long. She's had it for a while, and just hasn't known it."

"How bad is it?" Tom's hands had tightened into fists in his pockets, his heart beating erratically. "What stage?"

If anything, the old man's face became even more haggard, more drawn. His lips quivered as much as his voice when he finally answered. "Doctor says that he's not too hopeful. She's going to have some lymph nodes removed the day after Mindi leaves, and she'll start chemotherapy right after New Year's."

"Geez, Dad. Chemotherapy? Surgery? And you didn't think it was necessary to tell us?"

"I left it to your mother, and she decided not to." The excuse was weak, and Jed apparently knew it. "I didn't agree with her, but it was her choice."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Dunno."

"I'm not an idiot, Dad." Tom clenched his jaw before continuing. "Why now?"

"I don't know, Tom."

And it seemed that was the only answer that the old man had. Tom clamped his mouth shut, glaring through the dusty afternoon light to where Jed stood. There are some questions that hurt to ask. Tom felt this one all the way to his toes. "What's the prognosis?"

It took a long, long time for Jed to answer. When he finally did, his eyes were glistening oddly. "A few months, maybe."

"A few _months_?"

"If we're lucky."

"Damn it, Dad." Tom stepped towards his father, pulling his hands from his pockets. "Why the hell didn't you tell us earlier?"

"She didn't want me to. She made me promise."

"Does Mindi know?"

But Jed only shook his head, his jaw tight.

"And Rob?" He made a stupid kind of gesture towards the house. "He and Sophie have already left. They didn't have a chance to even understand or try to accept this."

"Like I said. Your mother - "

"We have a right to know, Dad." Tom slapped his hand on the table saw, sending a flurry of wood shavings and dust into the air. "We could have done things differently. Spent more time with her."

"She didn't want anything to be different than it would have been normally. She wanted Christmas to be happy."

"But - "

"It was her choice, Tommy." Jed stood, kicking the stool back and away from him. His voice was low and rough but carefully controlled. "And believe me - I'm not happy about it either, but she gets what she wants. This is _her_ choice. It's _her_ life."

Tom raked his fingers through his hair, heedless of the mess he was making. His body felt raw. Anger - pain - disbelief. He was hot all over. Hot and heavy and too-full - like his soul was going to explode. The metal of the table saw was cold beneath his palm, and gritty with dirt and sawdust. Rasping his hand against the table, he fought to control the frantic pace of his breathing, the pain settling in his heart. "What else can we do? Have you gotten a second opinion?"

"Tommy." Jed faded a little, shuffling forwards towards his son. "She's had a second opinion. And a third and fourth opinion. If there was anything that we could do - "

"So that's it?"

"Son." Jed stopped within an arm's reach of Tom. "I -"

And then Tom saw it. Saw _him_. Saw the frightened, lost man beneath his father's warrior-tough exterior. He'd never considered his father to be fragile before, never considered the fact that his father could ever be terrified or worried or vulnerable. But there it was, hovering beneath his dad's expression like a shark beneath the ice of a frozen lake. Jed Chandler had always just been - Dad. The Old Man. The Army Ranger. Determined, and stubborn and as hard-assed as they came.

But now -

"Damn it, Dad." Tom's voice gentled, but he couldn't look the old man in the face right then, couldn't meet that broken expression because it meant that, for so many years, he'd been wrong about something that he'd been certain that he knew. Jed wasn't past feeling. He wasn't incapable of basic human emotion. His father hid what he was feeling because he was afraid of losing what he loved. Couldn't face the possibility of being alone in the world. He felt too strongly, too completely, too much. And then he hid it all from the world.

Traits that he'd apparently passed on to his son.

"She didn't want me to tell you." Jed sounded small, and unsure, and weak. "She's going to kill me when she finds out that you know."

Shaking his head, Tom allowed his eyes to drift closed, only somewhat surprised when moisture mixed with the workshop grit there. Blinking rapidly, he swiped at his face with an open palm. "Mom adores you, Dad. That's something we've always known - even if we didn't understand it. She'll forgive you."

"Not immediately."

"I think she'll be able to put it into perspective."

"Yeah." Steepling his fingertips on his hips, Jed sighed. "Maybe you're right."

The dust swirled through the beams of light filtering in through the dirty shop windows. It was beautiful in its way - like the pictures of nebulas and gas clouds in space. Tom watched a particular mote as it swirled through the sunlight until it was lost to shadow on the other side. A fleeting bit of grace in the filthy stuff of life.

"I'm sorry, Son." Low, rough, Jed's words echoed the pain that he was obviously feeling. "I'm sorry."

"Me too, Dad."

"I'm just - " Jed struggled for a bit before simply ducking his head to his chest. "Aw, hell."

The heat rose behind Tom's eyes again, and he found himself crossing the distance between himself and his dad, found himself wrapping his arms around his father for the first time since he was a child. He'd never realized how much taller he was than his dad, how much the toil of war and stress and training had taken on the older man's body. Jed had always appeared to be a giant, but at this exact moment, he seemed only a breath away from crumpling.

"We'll get through this." Tom lowered his head to rest on his dad's shoulder - that shoulder that had always seemed able to carry the weight of the entire world. The one that had hefted him as he'd slept, held Christmas trees, duffel-sacks full of baseball equipment, and the weapons of war. The one that his mother had snuggled against as his parents had watched Johnny Carson on their brand new colored set. The shoulder that had always seemed rigid and inflexible.

The shoulder that was now shaking with the brutal force of his father's grief.


	13. What Can't Be, Is

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **What Can't Be, Is**_

He'd barely tossed his duffel bag down in his entryway when his phone buzzed. He'd long since put it on 'vibrate'. The constant calls on his drive home had made him hate his ring tone. The irony of that hadn't been lost on him - since the lack of calls during the first week of his visit had been equally frustrating.

But then he'd spoken with his father in the dusty confines of the workshop, and everything else had gotten pushed out of his mind.

His mother was dying, and she hadn't intended for him to know about it. He understood her reasoning - but then, he'd always understood his mother. Even when she was driving him nuts, he understood her motivations. For his entire life, her entire focus had been on steering him in the rights paths. When asked, she'd merely say, "All I want is for you to be happy, healthy, and productive." Patricia Chandler reigned supreme as the Queen of Self Sacrifice.

But all it had taken was a single look at him when he'd come back into the house, and Patricia had known that her eldest son _knew_. She'd quietly confessed the truth to Mindi, who had called Rob. From there, the rest of the afternoon had been filled with too-bright normalcy for Sylvie and Jenny's sake - all of the adults wearing masks as effective as any camouflage Tom had ever painted on. Once the girls had been tucked into their bunk beds, however, the business of questioning, researching, and decision-making had begun in earnest.

In the end, nothing had been settled. Patricia Chandler was more like her husband and son than they'd all thought. When it was all said and done, she wasn't quite ready to give up. And Mindi, Tom, Jed, and Rob had vowed to do everything they could to support her.

Apparently, that determination had necessitated exchanging phone calls every three minutes as he'd made the trek from Fort Benning back to Newport. His roaming charges were going to equal the National Debt.

Still, at least he felt like they were being proactive. For the first few hours, before the family had sat down and discussed the situation, he'd wandered around in a fog of disbelief. He'd felt lost, and stalled - terrified that he was losing everything without ever realizing that he'd had it pretty good. The only thing that made returning to Newport acceptable was that his mother was determined to see him complete his thesis. She'd had a job for each of them - a new, healthy baby for Mindi, Rob and Sophia happily married, and Tom returning to active duty with a shiny new degree.

Proactive. He was a military man. His mother knew him well enough to know that he'd function better with a mission. And Tom's mission had brought him back to his sketchy little apartment in Rhode Island.

Kicking his front door shut with his heel, he turned the lock and then fished his cell out of his pocket. He glanced at the front screen before tossing the thing onto his kitchen counter. He hadn't recognized the number. If they really wanted to talk to him, they'd call back. After one more prolonged 'buzz', the phone quieted. Probably a wrong number.

With the toe of his boot, he scooted his duffel deeper into his apartment, shoving it halfway down the hallway towards his bedroom. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was nearly two in the morning. Damn, but he was tired. He'd ended up staying a few extra days in Georgia, which had necessitated making the entire trip home in a single day so that he'd have time to prepare for the planning meetings. As a result, he was exhausted. The sheer quantity of caffeine he'd consumed during the trip meant that his eyeballs were floating.

A quick trip to the bathroom relieved that particular issue. But when he headed towards his bedroom, he realized that, more than anything else, he was restless - not to mention remarkably hungry. Making his way back down into the kitchen, he opened the door of his fridge, but nothing appealed. Sadly, his cupboards didn't hold anything better than the refrigerator. He needed to go shopping. Tomorrow.

A low hum drew his attention back to the counter, where his phone was buzzing again.

Reaching across the sink, he grabbed his phone and checked the outside screen again. Same number as last time. With a little frown, Tom flipped open the device and raised it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Is this Tom Chandler?"

"Yeah." Tom scowled. "Who's this?"

"Brandon. I'm the manager at the Squeaky Keg."

"The what?"

"It's a bar down on Thames. Near Perry Mill."

Tom opened his fridge again - just for something to do as he listened to Brandon. Still nothing appetizing. Leaning on the door, he glared at a carton of milk that was at least two weeks past expiration. "Okay. What do you need?"

"I've got a young lady here who claims that you know her."

Sighing, Tom swung the refrigerator door closed again. "Let me guess. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Sassy as hell?"

"That's the one." The manager's voice told Tom that he was smiling. "She said that you were her approved emergency contact, and that you'd be able to get her home."

"She did, huh?"

"I won't lie, dude." Brandon had ducked his head towards his chest, or maybe covered the mouthpiece with his hand - his voice came through slightly muffled, as if he were trying to be conspiratorial. "She's plastered. The girl holds it super-duper well, but she's had too much for me to just let go. When I suggested a cab, she just handed her keys over and wrote down your number. Said that you were the only one who'd understand."

Well, suck. Tom raised a hand and scrubbed at the back of his neck, stretching out a few kinks as he did it. "I can be there in fifteen minutes. Keep her happy until I get there, okay? Coffee. Water."

"Yes, sir." Brandon sounded both amused and relieved. "See you soon."

Flicking the phone shut, Tom traipsed back down into his bedroom, tugging off his shirt as he went. Tossing it on his bed, he found a fresh one in his closet, pulling it over his head as he made his way toward the kitchen. He shoved his phone back down into his jeans pocket, grabbed his keys and coat, and headed back out into the frigid darkness.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the Squeaky Keg wasn't any of it. It was small, and remarkably clean. Not like the modern clubs, with their chrome accents and colored lamps, but neither was it a dive like the places Lugo seemed to prefer. It was pleasant - if such a word could be ascribed to a drinking establishment. It felt more like a coffee shop than a bar, albeit without the overstuffed chairs and overpriced muffins.

Tom allowed the door to close quietly behind him, scanning the interior of the place until he'd found her. She was sitting at the bar, silent, staring down at where her hands lay in her lap. Brandon had done his job - on the counter directly in front of Sasha sat both a cup of coffee and a glass of water. If Tom had to guess, he'd say that neither of them had been touched. The rest of place was deserted - the sign on the door had informed patrons that the Squeaky Keg closed at two, and a check of his watch told him that it was quarter past.

A head poked out of a curtain-obscured hallway to the right of the front door. Perfectly round head, brown hair combed straight back from his hairline, a splattering of freckles across his nose. He looked too young to be a bar manager, but Tom knew instinctively that this was Brandon.

"Are you Tom?" Again, with the top-secret tone.

"I am." Humoring him, Tom lowered his voice to a scarce whisper.

The rest of Brandon emerged from behind the drape - and the rest of Brandon was as circular as his head. He was shorter than Tom by at least six inches, and wider by far more. "She came in around eleven, and has been going steadily ever since. Like I said - she drinks like a champion, but she's had way too much for me to let her drive."

"Has she caused you any problems?"

"No, sir." Brandon started walking towards the bar, hurrying Tom along with a wave of his pudgy hand. "She's a remarkably civil drunk. Handed her car keys over without argument, and then wrote your number down on her napkin. She said that if you didn't answer, then she'd consider calling a cab."

"Did she talk at all?"

"Nope. She's just stared at the bar and ordered more."

"Does she owe anything on a tab?"

"Paid up already. Her and that magic Platinum Card."

"Good." They'd reached the end of the bar, and Tom reached out to shake Brandon's hand. "Thanks for calling me, Brandon. I'll take care of her."

The manager had a surprisingly strong grip. When he'd let go, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, nondescript key ring. "Here are her keys. Her coat's on the rack near the door. You're welcome to leave her car here overnight. She parked in back, so it'll be pretty safe."

Tom took the keys, wrapping his fingers around them. "I'll come in the morning to get it."

"Good. Yeah. So, anyway - " Brandon gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be in the back helping to close up. Take your time."

Tom waited briefly, watching as Brandon flicked a switch near the front window that turned off the 'open' sign. With a fluidity that belied his size, the manager then made his way towards a passage in the back that presumably led to the kitchens, disappearing through a swinging door.

Taking a bracing kind of breath, Tom turned back towards Sasha.

She still hadn't moved, only this time she didn't have a book on the counter to occupy her. She was merely staring down at her hands, her dark hair falling across her shoulders to obscure her face. Even without seeing her features, he knew her, though. Knew the shape of her body, the lines of her form. He'd even seen her sit this way before.

 _Deja vu._

It hit him right in the gut. In a way, this is how it had started. Sasha sitting alone at a bar, and Tom approaching hesitantly. She was even dressed the same - jeans and a form fitting jacket. The jacket was burgundy, this time, but still - the similarities were there. Right down to how Tom slid onto the bar stool next to hers, and how she completely ignored his presence.

Funny - he still didn't know quite what to say. Despite their relationship - despite the intimacies that they'd shared, he was still her superior officer. She was still a subordinate. He probably shouldn't even be here, in this bar in the wee hours of the morning, with this woman who obviously needed something that it wouldn't be wise for Tom to offer.

Because, to be honest, he was in need, too. He'd been surviving for the last few days on coffee and purpose, but that couldn't last forever. Every so often, he could feel his resolve falter, and he started to feel - _things_. Real things. Fear, and anger, and desperation. Overwhelming worry for his mother and father. Loneliness. The loss that had inundated him as he'd watched Sasha walk towards her car when they'd spoken just before Christmas.

Hell - the loss he'd felt as soon as he'd realized who she was.

As much as he'd like to, he hadn't quite been able to turn his feelings 'off' lately. Sublimate, yes. Deny - sure. Pretend - absolutely. But, as he'd learned recently, he was Jed Chandler's son, through and through. No matter how deeply he'd tried to bury things, they had the audacity to rise up and show themselves to the world.

So, he'd reverted to his training. And, just as he'd mapped out a plan of attack with his mother's sickness, he'd mentally strategized how to deal with Sasha. He'd formulated a plan, and was going to follow through with it. On the drive over, he'd decided that he'd disengage himself from this particular errand. Pick her up. Take her to where ever she'd been living, and drop her off. She'd be fine.

Only now, sitting next to her, he was finding that whole 'disengagement' thing difficult.

Sighing, Tom leaned in towards Sasha, saying the first thing that popped into his head. "You look like a girl who's lost her llama."

She didn't look at him, but she did lift a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. She was pale - more so than normal - and her eyelashes were dark and spiky. Tom pressed his lips together. He'd never imagined her to be the crying kind. She'd always seemed sort of implacable.

Well, except for during certain moments of weakness. In frigid parking lots, for example, or as she'd giggled about wayward ice cream.

Or as she'd lain next to him, their limbs tangled in hotel sheets.

One sentence in, and he'd already failed in his objective. What was it they said?

 _In for a penny. . ._

Trouble was, that pound was probably going to come back to bite him in the butt.

Edging closer, he nudged her with his elbow. "Have the quintuplets been giving you grief again?" He leaned closer, swiveling on the chair until his knee touched her denim-clad thigh. "Talking back to you? Staying out too late? Jacking cars and going on joyrides?"

She swiped at her eyes with her fingertips, shaking her head. The tiny crease next to her mouth told him that she was still coherent enough to be amused. "No. But one of the llamas has formed a death-metal band. He's got a purple mohawk, and is currently dating a really unsavory Alpaca. He knows I don't approve."

"I'll bet that Ngawang has nothing useful to say about that, either."

Finally, she raised her head and looked at him. She blinked several times before she answered. "Well, he's mute - so, probably not."

"You'd think he'd carry a notepad or learn to mime or something."

"Ah, well." The corner of her mouth twitched before a lock of hair tumbled out from behind her ear to fall across her cheek. "He's a bastard. They don't think of such conveniences. "

Tom reached out and smoothed the curl behind her ear again, his touch light on her skin. "You probably say that about all your exes."

She canted a look at him, her eyes huge and earnest. "Not _all_ of them."

Tom felt a surge of something within him. Something primal and raw - something profound and protective. He hadn't meant to feel this, damn it - it hadn't been part of his plan. But when he raised his hand again, it was to cup the smooth curve of her cheek and soothe away a tear that clung stubbornly to her lower lashes. "So. I thought that you didn't like drinking."

Flattening her hand on his thigh, Sasha leaned in towards him with a conspiratorial air. "I changed my mind."

"Why?"

Her brow rose. "Reasons."

"Good reasons?"

"The _best_ reasons."

"And those would be - " Tom allowed his voice to trail off, inviting her to answer him.

"Parents." If possible, she widened her eyes even further, tightening her fingers on his leg. "They're bastards, too."

"Sasha." Frowning, Tom wrapped his fingers around her own, squeezing gently.

"Yes, Tom - Sir?" Nodding smartly, she sat upright. The vehemence of her nod had tumbled a lock of hair directly in front of one eye. She seemed to be able to ignore it, peering around it in his direction. "Is this a Lieutenant moment, or are we doing the friend thing right now?"

"I think it's a friend thing." Damn it to hell. He pushed the offending bit of hair back, just as effectively as he'd shoved away his resolve. "In fact, I'm sure of it."

"Good." Sasha sagged a little, relieved. "So, I can tell you that I am really, really drunk."

"I'd figured that out."

"I told Brandon to call you."

"And he did." Tom reached out and grabbed the cup of coffee. It was still warm. "Here. Little sips."

"I don't want to."

"Sasha." He'd used a tone he'd picked up after more than a week with his sister. Nurturing, yet insistent. "Drink."

Rolling her eyes, Sasha pulled her fingers from his and gripped the mug with both hands. Taking a whiff of the brew, she winced before looking at him again. "I was kind of afraid that you weren't home from Georgia yet."

"I just got home a bit ago." Glancing pointedly at the cup, he raised his brows. "Drink."

Obediently, she took a sip. After she swallowed, Sasha scrunched up her nose. "I can't remember. Has it been scientifically proven that coffee sobers people up? Or is it tomato juice?"

Tom smiled. "I think that the tomato juice thing is for if you're sprayed by a skunk."

"No. I'm serious." She motioned towards him with the cup, sloshing a little bit of the brew over the edge. "I saw it on TV once. These guys did a study about it. Busters - something. Mythsbusted - Buster Brown Myths - something."

"Mythbusters?"

Grinning, Sasha pointed at him with her free hand. "That's it! You're so smart."

"And what was it that they decided?"

"Sadly, they said that coffee does _not_ help you sober up."

"So, I shouldn't make you drink this?"

She sniffed the contents of her cup again, then carefully placed it back on the counter next to the water. Leaning towards him, she cupped her hand against his ear, whispering loudly. "It tastes like poo."

"Like poo?"

"And poo is icky."

"Yes." Tom nodded. "Poo is, indeed, icky."

Straightening again, she looked down, adjusting her jacket, smoothing her hands down her jeans. With a little frown, she patted at the pocket on the outside of her jacket. "I've got most of my stuff, but I don't have my keys."

"I've got them."

"Are you going to take me home?"

"That's the plan."

She nodded, looking around her chair. "I don't have my coat."

"It's over by the door."

"Good." She turned towards him and prepared to stand. "I was hoping that nobody snitched it. It's warm and kind of spendy."

Tom rose to his feet. Holding his hands out to help Sasha, he couldn't help asking, "Spendy?"

Scooting off the stool, she ignored his proferred hands and wrapped her arms around his body, instead. Sinking a little against him, she pressed her nose against his chest for a moment before tilting her head back and smiling up at him. "I'm _really_ rich."

"You are, huh?" Tom's hands slid around her body, holding her steady.

"Well, _I'm_ not, I suppose." Her eyes swam a little before she refocused on him. "My parents are loaded, though."

"And so, 'spendy' would mean - "

"Totally expensive."

"Ah." He made sure that she was balanced before starting them walking towards the door. "Well, good thing it's still here, then."

"Exactly." She scowled. "Because I'd have to go all Intelligence Girl on their butts and ferret out the thief."

"Intelligence Girl?"

They'd stopped at the coat rack, and Sasha reached her arms out so that Tom could put her coat on. "Kind of like Wonder Woman. Or Super Girl."

He couldn't help it. He grinned. "So, you're a superhero now?"

"I totally should be. They keep telling me that we're saving the world." She pulled her hair out of her coat collar, then attempted to button the front. She got the top one done, but couldn't quite match up the rest. After a couple of tries, she looked up at Tom. "You know what? Super heroes wear tights. Tights don't have buttons."

"You are absolutely right. Tights do not have buttons." Reaching out, Tom grasped the front pockets of her coat and pulled her closer. With the dexterity that came with sobriety, he finished fastening her coat and then wrapped her scarf around her neck, tucking the tails into the spaces between the buttons. "Good?"

She cast a look downward, craning her neck to see past the hem of her coat down towards her boots. Sliding her hands into her pockets, she turned her chin upwards to look him in the eye. "Toasty."

"Then let's get you home."

-OOOOOOOOO-

She'd only slipped once on the ice, and that had been on the sidewalk outside her hotel. He'd caught her before she'd hit the ground, then pulled her close to his body and held her tightly with an arm around her lower back. Tom had assiduously tried to avoid thinking how right she felt there, but failed miserably as soon as she'd lain her head against his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his coat in a movement eerily reminiscent of a kitten.

For whatever reason, Sasha had first suggested going to his apartment, but Tom had convinced her that wouldn't be a good idea. When he'd aimed his truck in the direction of the College, she'd protested, informing him that she'd been staying at the hotel during the break. All it had taken was a U-turn and a few back streets, and he'd pulled into the nearly deserted sparking lot just before three in the morning.

The night clerk only raised an eyebrow as they'd passed his desk. He was too involved with whatever he was reading behind his counter to pay attention to much of anything. Tom had asked Sasha which room she was in, and was mildly surprised that it was the same one she'd been staying in months earlier. He'd pressed the button for the elevator as she'd shrugged at his expression, to which she'd only offered "It's my favorite" as an explanation.

At her room door, it took a bit of doing to find her keycard. Tom watched as she searched deep into the front pockets of her coat before fumbling at the buttons. Sighing defeat, she leaned against the wall outside her door and lowered her head with a 'thunk' onto the elegantly patterned paper.

Tom figured he had to offer. "Do you want me to help you?"

"Would you?" Her eyes followed him as she moved closer, their blue still eerily sharp even in her state of inebriation.

Tom made short work of the buttons, careful not to linger. Touching her was different here, in the dim, empty hallway, than it had been in the brighter and more public bar. Different when they were standing outside the door where he'd spent the single most remarkable night of his life. Memories fell over him like rain, dousing him in feelings he'd rather not put words to. She'd been the one to bring that up - the fact that naming things made them more difficult to lose.

"Where's the key, Sasha?"

"It's in my pocket, Tommy." Her eyes drowsed closed, and he knew that she was losing the fight. Steeling himself, he skimmed his fingertips over the front pockets of her jeans, and then over the back pockets. She giggled when his hand dipped into her right back pocket, emerging with three cards - her driver's license, her credit card, and the keycard. It was only a few more seconds before the door clicked 'unlocked' and he could swing it open.

Tom held the door open for her, and she sauntered past him into the hotel room. It was exactly as he'd remembered, down to the randomly strewn personal items. Sasha made her way past the kitchen and towards the bedroom, dropping things as she went. Her scarf landed first, followed by her coat. By the time Tom had retrieved the items from the floor, she'd pulled her jacket off and was tugging at her plain white t-shirt.

"Sasha."

She stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, her jacket on the floor next to her feet. She'd gotten a shirt sleeve off one arm, but seemed stymied by the second one. Her blouse hung diagonally across her body, exposing one creamy bare shoulder, a wide swath of midriff and back, and a decidedly nondescript white bra. Slouching, she looked blearily up at him from under her lashes.

"It's stuck."

"Wouldn't it be better if you just kept it on?"

"Why? I don't sleep in this shirt."

"I just don't think it's a good idea for you to get undressed."

Her smile was brilliant, and a little wicked. "Why not? You've already seen everything I've got."

"It's not really allowed, Sasha."

Her brows rose. "Ah. Right. That whole lieutenant thing."

"Right." He crossed to her, helping her put her arm back through the loose sleeve. "So, you'd better just let me help you into bed."

Her lips turned upwards in a slow, mischievous kind of smirk. "Are you going to come in there with me?"

Putting his hands on her shoulders, Tom propelled her towards the bed. "Really not a good idea."

"Because you want to stay here with me?"

He didn't have an acceptable answer for that, so he merely grunted a little, turning her handily and aiming her as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"You do, don't you?" Sasha held out a foot, watching as Tom lowered the zipper on the inside of her calf and pulled the boot off. Her sock came next, joined quickly by the second boot and its sock. "Tom?"

He'd paused, staring at her jeans. Not particularly comfortable to sleep in, but also not wise for him to remove. Stalling, he looked her in the eye. "What, Sasha?"

"You do, don't you?"

What possible harm could it do? It was the truth. They were alone. She was three sheets to the wind, and it was unlikely that she was coherent enough to remember much of what was said here. "Yes, Sasha. I do."

"Mmm." She smiled - her expression a little hazy. With a dexterity that was born of years of practice, she reached behind her back, unclasping her bra. Within seconds, she'd pulled the straps off one arm through her sleeve, and then completed the trick by pulling the entire undergarment through the other sleeve, tossing it joyfully onto the floor next to her boots. Closing her eyes contentedly, she stretched a little. "Best time of the day. If you weren't a guy, you'd totally understand."

Tom had to close his own eyes to fight his way back to control. Damn it.

"I'm tired, Tom." Scooting backwards, she lowered herself until her head found the pillows. Reaching downward, she tugged at the covers, but couldn't figure out how to draw them up over herself. "I think I'm stuck again."

Muttering another curse beneath his breath, he took a few strides towards the bed. It took some fiddling to finagle the comforter free, and then the top sheet, maneuvering Sasha into a more comfortable position before pulling the covers back up over her. Apparently, it worked, because she sighed, turning onto her side and snuggling down into the luxurious softness of the mattress.

Tom watched as her shoulders relaxed, as her breathing deepened. She sighed, wriggling a little as she curled her fingers up under her chin, and then seemed to drift away.

He hesitated, staring down at her. She'd be fine. She'd sleep it off, and wake up in the morning no worse for her night of excess. There was no reason for him to stay. None at all.

Still, Tom stood at her bedside, watching her sleep.

He wanted -

But what he wanted would be the height of inadvisable, disallowed, and against every regulation he could think of. Not to mention beyond stupid.

Damn it. He wanted.

Rolling his eyes heavenward, he glared for a long, long time at the ceiling, his hands balling into fists at his side. She was drunk - however coherent she'd been. She was his subordinate - no matter how their relationship had begun. She was temptation, and wonder, and completion - no matter what kind of hellish confusion she'd brought into his existence.

 _She was his._

 _But she couldn't be._

He breathed a curse, turning and aiming for the hall. Home. He needed to get home, get some sleep and something to eat. He had physical therapy in the morning, and needed to prepare for classes and his thesis review and he'd promised Mindi that he would check in on their father daily. He needed to go home.

He'd already pulled his keys from his pocket when he heard her.

"Tom." Sleepy, but strong.

He didn't - _couldn't_ \- turn around. Seeing her would shatter his resolve. Instead, he angled his chin over his shoulder. "What?"

"Stay."

Tom's eyes drifted shut on another whispered curse.

"Just stay. Nothing else." She'd turned in bed - he could hear the shushing of the sheets around her body. "Please."

"That's really not a good - "

But she didn't let him finish. "I just really don't want to be alone, Tom. Please don't leave me alone."

He shook his head - more to himself than to her. Standing there, with his life in tumult, he found that he wasn't able to resist anymore. He was going to give in. He was going to lose this battle with reason. Maybe it was his exhaustion, or the worry that was eating at the pit of his soul, or simply the fact that he was still hungry. Maybe he was just weak. Maybe he wanted her too much. It didn't really matter. There wasn't any excuse other than that he didn't want to leave. He understood all too well what she was feeling, what she was asking. And truthfully, he didn't want to be alone, either.

He turned, and made his way to the bed, shucking off his jacket as he went. She was watching him, her eyes far more alert than they should have been. His boots ended up on the floor next to hers, and he turned off the lamp on the nightstand as he dropped his keys and wallet next to it. She lifted the comforter in invitation, scooting over towards the opposite side of the bed.

And then he slid in beside her, his arm beneath her head, her body nestled up against his. Warm, and soft, and strong. She fit against him as perfectly as possible - exactly as he'd remembered. As natural as daylight. As natural as breath.

Pressing a kiss to the back of her head, he allowed his body to relax, his hand to curve around her waist. He needed this. Needed rest. Needed _her_.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"I kind of really love you right now."

He felt her fingertips tangle within his own, her cheek caressing his inner arm, her feet insinuating themselves between his calves. Her toes were cold. His own hand tightened on her abdomen, pulling her closer, until her bottom nested up against his thighs, and her back was flush against his chest. Sighing into the dark silk of her hair, he damned himself for ten kinds of fool. "Just go to sleep, Sasha."


	14. What Shouldn't Be, Hurts

_**Far Edge of Anywhere**_

 _ **What Shouldn't Be, Hurts**_

 _Thank you all for your patience! My life has been super-duper-uber CRAZY lately, so I haven't had much time for writing. This chapter is long, though, so maybe that makes up for the wait? Regardless, I hope you enjoy._

 ** _-OOOOOO-_**

Tom opened his eyes to find her looking at him. At some point throughout the night, they'd disentangled themselves, each seeking their own space. He didn't remember anything past settling into the bedding and closing his eyes, so his sleep must have been profound. Apparently, it had been what they'd needed - Tom was more rested than he'd felt in months.

Or, at least - since the last night he'd spent in her bed.

He wasn't even certain what had brought him out of his sleep. The hotel was quiet, the drapes blocking out the most glaring of the morning's light. Long, long ago, he'd cultivated the ability to sleep fully clothed, and in the most unusual of circumstances. At the moment, however, he was warmly cosseted in the luxury of her bed. He wasn't cold, or wet, or being shot at. No alarm was blaring in his ear. There was literally nothing amiss. He felt a languid heaviness in his body, as if every muscle had been eased. He was just - awake. And as sated as if he'd spent the night - well - not sleeping.

Waking up next to _her_ \- well, that only made things better. Infinitely more complicated, but better.

He stretched his toes a little, forcing some life into his morning-stiff leg. She was still simply lying there, watching him, her face carrying the same expression as he felt, as if that made any sense to anyone but him.

When she spoke, it was quiet. "You stayed."

His answer was just as gentle. "You asked me to."

Sasha turned her face into the pillow a little before responding, a cheeky grin tugging at her lips. "Are you always this obedient?"

They were facing each other, each on their own sides of the bed. A respectable expanse of mattress stretched between them - not unlike the canyon etched out of the rock by the Colorado River. Clearing his throat, Tom frowned. "You've asked me that before."

Her brows lowered. "When?"

Taking a deep breath, Tom frowned a little in thought. "When we met at the pier. The first day we spent together."

"And what did you answer?"

"I don't remember for sure. Probably something along the lines of 'no'."

"So, were you telling the truth?"

Tom searched her face for a breath before answering, unsure whether they were keeping things light, or whether this was a 'come clean' moment. He opted for truth. "I've never lied to you, Sasha."

"I know that." She shook her head, her hair tangling around her ear. "I do. But we've both kept things from the other."

"Not necessarily lying."

"No."

After a bit, Tom pressed for more. "So, are you going to tell me what happened last night?"

Ducking her chin towards her chest, she crinkled her nose a little. "Do I have to?"

"You said something about your parents."

"I remember that."

"What else do you remember?"

Sighing, Sasha made a quarter-turn, until she was looking up at the ceiling rather than right at him. "I've already told you that I'm a good drunk, Tom."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

She shifted again, pulling the comforter up to her chin. "It means that I remember everything."

For some stupid reason, he needed to test that. "So, who's Brandon?"

"Brandon is the manager of the Squeaky Keg. I gave him your number and asked him to call you."

"Why didn't you just have him get you a cab?"

She didn't answer immediately, suddenly finding a wrinkle in the pillowcase intriguing. It was only after he'd cleared his throat again that she seemed to remember that he'd asked anything at all. "I don't know. I just didn't want him to."

"Because you wanted me to come get you?"

Her answer to that was barely more than a whisper. "I hoped that you would."

"Why?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Why aren't you answering them?"

"Because I'd have to tell you things." She glowered down at the expanse of wrinkled sheets between them before pressing her eyelids tightly closed. Finally, she passed her tongue over her lips and rolled back towards him, peering up at him from beneath her thick lashes. "Sometimes, the truth really sucks."

He'd been trying not to touch her, not sure exactly how strong his resolve would be in the light of day. But somehow, his fingers still made their way to trail along her cheek, feeling the softness there before resettling themselves under the edge of his pillow. "I can't argue with that."

"Anyway, I remember it all. You came in and we chatted, and then you found and buttoned my coat." A tiny shrug accompanied her sigh. "You drove us here in your truck, and we came upstairs, where you felt me up a little looking for my keycard. That part was fun."

"I didn't feel you up."

"Oh, you kind of did." Sasha's lips curved upwards. "And it wasn't bad, although you might want to learn the fine art of lingering."

"Lingering?"

"Letting it play out. Allowing things just to happen."

Tom rolled his eyes, shaking his head a little. "You have to know that would have been - hell, this is still - a supremely bad idea."

But if Sasha recognized that, she wasn't going to talk about it. Instead, she covered her face with her fingers for a few seconds before she mumbled, "My parents came for Christmas."

"I know." Tom nodded. "You told me they'd be here. That night that I left."

She squinted at the ceiling. "Can I just say that it wasn't festive?"

"No." Lifting a brow, Tom poked her in the arm. "Details, Tierney."

"They're pretty sure that they know everything." Sasha fidgeted, shoving a little at the pillow under her head, adjusting the loft of it. "They've never made any bones about the fact that they don't feel that my present occupation is ideal."

"Ideal?"

"Their word." She groaned, demonstrating exactly what she thought of it. "My father thought that he'd figured out the perfect integration of my education and training and his world. He found me a job with Dipingxian. It's a Chinese corporation based in Taiwan, and a subsidiary of one of his companies."

"What do they do?"

"I have no idea. My father didn't really elaborate. The name means 'Horizon', so that's hardly descriptive." Her gaze slid from Tom's face to a point just over his shoulder. "Probably something both very lucrative and very elite. My guess is high-tech manufacturing. Chinese workers require far lower wages than their American counterparts. It costs less to make pretty much anything in China."

"So, what did you tell him?"

"I told him to go to hell." She turned her face into the pillow, letting out a grunt of sorts. When she came up for air, her face had gone pale. "I told him and my mom that they needed to let me live my life. They suggested that I needed to think about what my choices were doing to the family."

"What did they mean by that?"

"I don't know." Her shoulder edged upwards towards her jaw. "We were at the Charthouse for dinner, and all of a sudden, we were all mad at each other. And to make matters worse, just as they were extolling the virtues of my leaving the military, Commander Sheffield appeared."

"You're kidding."

"No. He was there with his wife, dressed to the nines." Sasha groaned, rubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands. "He introduced himself to my parents. My mom immediately went into ambassador mode, smiling and being carefully polite. My dad just glared at him and asked him why he was encouraging his daughter to abandon her heritage."

Tom rolled onto his back and then scooted upwards until he was sitting up. She didn't need for him to respond, so he didn't. Instead, he merely waited for her to continue.

"Tom, it was awful. I was so mortified." She crossed her arms on the pillow above her head, staring at the ceiling. "My father asked the Commander whether he had any daughters. So, of course Sheffield said he does, and my father asked him whether he expected them to follow him into the military. He said, 'Don't you want better for your kids than what you were able to achieve?'"

Scowling, Tom leaned forward, resting his forearms on his up-bent knees. "Seriously?"

"Sheffield tried to make a quick getaway, he was obviously embarrassed, and his wife was livid. I don't blame her. My father was being insulting. Before they could leave, my dad stood up and asked him, loudly, if he were aware of - as he put it - my colored past."

"Your what?"

"My sordid history." She glanced towards him. "I've told you about the school I was kicked out of. The drinking party."

"Sure. But that's not really sordid, is it?"

Sasha sank down lower into the bed, covering her face with the comforter. When she spoke, her voice was muffled. "There's a bit more to it all than that."

"Like what?"

"Stupid stuff." Lowering the covers to her chin, she tossed him a furtive glance before refocusing on the ceiling. "I was inordinately gifted at slipping my security detail. They weren't there so much for my protection as to keep me from getting into trouble."

Intrigued, Tom waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he reached out and poked her shoulder. "Come on, Sasha, you can't say something like that and then not elaborate."

"When you're the child of an Ambassador, you're expected to be ambassador-like, too. I just - couldn't be that person."

Tom raised his brows. "How bad was it?"

To her credit she blushed, her eyes leaving his and focusing on the unrelenting whiteness of the comforter, instead. When she was ready to speak again, she glanced over at him with the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Some of my friends and I stole a government-issued car and took a joyride in downtown Brussels. I flashed a group of monks on top of the Eiffel Tower. I was escorted out of the Fukugawa-Edo Museum after performing a tap-dancing routine in the foyer. We recreated the poses of some of the weirder pieces of art work in the Louvre and then took pictures. I poured six liters of dishwashing detergent into a fountain in Bern. It bubbled for nearly a week. Stupid. Just stupid stuff." She looked over at him, a bit sheepishly. "I was pretty wild, Tom. Maybe I was rebelling, or trying to get my parents' attention, I don't know. I'm not proud of it. That's all just excuses, right? I knew better, and I did stupid stuff anyway."

"You were young." Tom shrugged a little. "We all do things when we're young that we regret later."

"But not all of us are the only begotten of Arthur and Nancine Tierney." Sasha rolled her eyes. "To say that my behavior wasn't acceptable would be a spectacular understatement."

Nodding, Tom glanced sideways at her. "So, your dad told Sheffield about all of that?"

"And more."

"More?"

"A couple of arrests, some stiff fines." She suddenly bolted upright, throwing back the covers and escaping the bed. Taking a few steps, she stopped, staring at the still-closed curtains on the window. "I did countless hours of community service. In the end, it was all covered up because most of it happened out of the country while I was still a minor."

He watched as she fiddled with her hair, combing it back from her face and into a haphazard ponytail before pulling it over her shoulder. The nape of her neck was tight and he could see her jaw stiffen and release rhythmically - stress, no doubt. "How did you get into the Academy?"

Sasha threw him a look back over her shoulder. "Recommendations from the headmaster at the military school. I approached some of my parents' friends on the sly. A few senators and the US Ambassador to China. I'd dated his son - nothing serious - a few formals here and there, and he liked me. I actually had pretty decent grades, and killed the ACT. Senator Barton made the formal nomination, and that was that."

"And since you've entered the Navy - "

"I've kept my nose gloriously clean." Sasha pivoted on her toes, biting her lip between her small, neat teeth before pillorying Tom with a look. "Except for a slightly squirrelly relationship with a superior officer."

"Ah." There was really nothing else he could say to that. He was in the same boat, so to speak.

She turned back towards the window, parting the curtains with the backs of her fingers and peering out into the bright morning light. More to herself than to anybody else, she muttered, "It's later than I thought."

Tom grimaced, swinging his legs around and sinking his toes into the plush carpeting on the floor. He'd been avoiding looking at his watch, knowing that he'd already missed his appointment with Jackson at the clinic. Pulling up into his parking space the night before, he'd planned on heading straight to bed so that he could get up early and catch up on work and school. He'd made his physical therapy appointment from the road, then plotted out the remainder of his weekend - he'd had a mental list of all things he'd needed to accomplish before classes reconvened on Monday. To start with, he'd intended to be in the office well before ten.

What he hadn't intended was to end up in her bed again, sleeping within her reach, sharing her air and heat and comfort. Nor had he intended to remember what it had been like - how easy their conversation was, how natural it felt - and how right. How easy it was to simply be with her.

He certainly hadn't wanted to remember how desperately he still wanted her.

 _Damn. Damn. And more damn._

Heaving a sigh, he hazarded a look at the clock. Ten-forty. Standing, he stretched a bit - working out some kinks - and then turned towards the window.

She was watching him, a poignant, wistful sort of look playing on her features. Her lips had curved into a half-smile, her eyelids heavy. She'd been fiddling with a strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder, and her hand paused with a dark curl twisted around her fingers. With a suddenness that he'd only ever experienced in battle, he wanted those fingers on his skin again. The ache was so intense that it sucked the breath from his body.

He took a few steps backwards, then turned, taking long strides towards the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he bent over the sink, turning the knobs and dousing his face and neck with cold water from the faucet. When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. Unshaven jaw, unkempt curls - even his eyes looked a little wild. Too wide, too blue - alive, yet haunted.

Grabbing a towel, he scrubbed at the water still dripping down his cheeks and chin. He needed a shower. The clean shirt he'd put on before leaving his apartment so many hours ago was wrinkled and sleep-musty, and he'd lost track of how many hours he'd spent wearing his Levis. He was hungry - for more than just food, sure - but his stomach rumbled just enough to remind him that he'd been subsisting on convenience store dregs for far too long. He needed to call home. Mindi would be expecting him to check in. He needed to speak with his mother, and continue rebuilding trust with his father. He needed to head into the office. There were lessons to plan, and a thesis to write. Not to mention the difficult teaching partner with whom to deal.

He needed to flee this hotel room. He needed distance between himself and the woman on the other side of the door.

But he wanted her. Profoundly. To the core of his soul. And it wasn't just the allure of her hands, her mouth, or her form. What he missed was the easiness between them, the quick smiles she'd flashed him, or the way she always seemed to know what he was thinking. If all he'd wanted was a quick lay, there had been ample opportunities - he wasn't a hermit, after all. But none of those girls had been Sasha. None of the other women he'd met recently had been - _Her_.

Really - what harm would it be? Who could possibly know that he'd spent the night here with her? Besides, if they did know, the damage was already done. Anyone would assume that they'd spent the night doing precisely what they _hadn't_ been doing. They'd be damned regardless.

And Tom could really use the escape. He welcomed the thought of a few hours of forgetting his responsibilities, of sublimating the pressure of teaching and his thesis and the fear he'd been trying to ignore over his mother's illness. Taking Sasha by the hand and leading her back to bed for the rest of the day would be a relief - however temporary. However disastrously it might end.

Muttering a curse, he turned the water off and situated the towel back on its hook. It only took a few moments to take care of his other needs. He borrowed her comb to tame his hair, and smiled as he picked up the toothbrush he'd used the last time he'd been here. She'd either been too lazy to throw it away or hopeful that he'd need it again.

Opening the door, he glanced across the hall into the bedroom to find it empty. The bed was still rumpled, but one of the drawers in the dresser was open just a crack. Veering right, he headed towards the kitchenette, where Sasha was fiddling with something on the counter.

"I hope you're hungry."

"Excuse me?"

She'd changed. In place of the jeans and t-shirt she'd worn to bed, she'd donned a dress of some sort. More of a nightgown than anything else, it was short - barely reaching her knees, and had a wide scooped neck that exposed a dizzying amount of smooth skin below her collar bones. It was loose and swirled around her body as she moved, clinging only to the most interesting curves. Tom swallowed sharply.

 _Yes. He was hungry._

Seemingly oblivious, Sasha shot him a grin as he approached, gesturing towards the tray on the counter in front of her. "The night clerk must have informed the staff that I had company. They sent double."

"Double what?"

"Breakfast." She lifted a plate piled high with donuts, croissants, and what looked Danish. "There's also fruit and I've got coffee in the pot over there."

Frowning down at the pastries, Tom leaned his hip on the edge of the counter. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." Absently, Sasha picked a sprinkle off the top of one of the frosted donuts. "Ask away."

"Do you live here full-time?"

"Um - no." Shaking her head, she laid the plate back down. "Why do you ask?"

"You're in the same room as last time. It seems lived in - not hotel-like. Same toothbrush, same full-sized toiletries. You have personal items everywhere. The staff brings you breakfast."

She blushed - just a little, smiling down at their make-shift feast. "My parents kind of own the hotel."

"They own it."

"They bought it years ago. They were invited by some political friends to summer at one of the mansions on the coast. They fell in love with the area, and bought up several properties. A few apartment buildings, some small summer rental cottages, an art gallery, and this place."

"So, the men's clothes that you have in your drawers - "

"Belong to my father. They have another suite on the opposite end of the place that they use when they're in town. When they're not in town, their stuff gets moved to my room so that they can rent out the suite."

"They're there now?"

"Probably." Sasha snitched another morsel off the pastry tower. "I really don't know. We didn't leave the restaurant together. I'm not sure where they went after I left."

Memories flashed through his head - questions he'd had that had as of yet gone unanswered. "That day on the pier. The first day. You were at the art gallery."

"I had some papers to sign. I do a lot of the purchasing there. My minor was art history."

"Of course it was."

Turning, Sasha leaned back against the cabinets, casting Tom an odd look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Tom shook his head. "Nothing."

"It meant something."

Biting back a scowl, Tom reached out and picked up a Danish. "It's just that there's always something new to learn about Sasha Tierney. You're like an enigma wrapped in a question. I'm never sure about anything that I thought I knew about you."

Her eyes made a slow assessment of him - his stance, his expression. With her customary agile grace, she hoisted herself up until she was sitting on the counter, her long, bare legs dangling over the edge. "You know the important things, Tom."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he defaulted to testing the Danish in his hand. The jam was cloying and too-sweet. Setting the pastry on the edge of the plate, he aimed for the other side of the kitchenette, where the coffee pot had finished its task. He poured two cups and then turned to hand her one. She accepted without looking, passing him a spoon that she'd pilfered from the drawer next to her left calf. It felt so normal - passing her sugar packets, reaching for milk out of the fridge and napkins from the holder on the counter - as if they'd done this dance dozens of times. It felt like how things should be, in a perfect world.

"Here." She handed him a plate on which she'd placed his Danish and another donut. "Oh - wait. You've got something."

"Where?" He made a random swipe at his chin with his shoulder - knowing that it would accomplish precisely nothing.

"Come here." She grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards her, until he was standing between her knees. Putting her coffee cup down, she turned his head with a push of her fingertips. "It looks like jam."

He made another attempt, this time with his tongue at the corner of his mouth, which also failed.

"Still there." Sasha shook her head. Cupping his jaw with one hand, she used the pad of her thumb of the other to dab away the splotch stubbornly sitting on the stubble beneath his bottom lip. "I think I've got it."

Looking down, Tom watched as she held up her hand to show him. It only took a moment to identify. "It's from the Danish."

"Cherry?"

His voice sounded hoarse, even to him. "I thought raspberry."

Slowly, she lifted her thumb to her lips and sucked the sticky sweetness off her skin, getting the last of it with a languid sweep of her tongue. It took her entirely too long for her to decide. "I think you're right."

"I think - " But there weren't words for what he was thinking. No way to describe what was surging though him. It had happened suddenly - a few moments before, he'd been in a hazy state of control. Now, he was primed to explode, his entire being tight and raw. And standing so close, with her feel still on his skin, her knees skimming his hips - her smell and touch filling his senses - it was suddenly barely tolerable. It was - no - _she_ was an exquisite torture. Tom bit his lips together and gathered the will to force himself to step away. Somehow, he couldn't summon up the energy.

It would be so easy - _too easy_ \- to give in. And damned but if he wanted to give in more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life.

"Tom."

Answering her would make it worse, but he'd lost the ability to think. "Yeah?"

"You should probably go home." Her voice was practically a whisper.

His response was hoarse, and broken. "I know."

Her fingers skimmed the fabric of his shirt, butterfly-light. Her breathing had grown shallow, but her pulse thrummed steadily in the hollow between her collarbones. "I want you to stay, but you really shouldn't."

"I know that, too." Tom captured her hand in his own - a mistake, he realized too late. Just that bit of contact was enough to break his will. The knowledge that she was as affected as he was rendered the situation more dangerous. "Damn it, yes."

But he reached for her, anyway. His other hand rose to her cheek, his fingers tangling in the hair at her nape as he pulled her close. Not soft. Not hesitant. Not indecisive. He'd been seeking release, and she was offering it. At the first touch, all of his resolve dissipated. All of his carefully curated reasons dissolved. There was only this, and her, and now. Hot and open and raw, his kiss both demanded and possessed. The voice of caution in his head had been silenced by the feel of her against his body.

Her arm threaded itself around his neck, her other hand tangling in his t-shirt. She opened to him easily, her tongue darting against his own. They shifted closer, his hand on her thigh, edging the hem of her dress upwards even as her leg wrapped around his hip. The feel of her heel on the back of his leg drove Tom forward. Savoring the taste of her, he went deeper, seeking more.

 _Press close, retreat. Surge, taste, devour._ Pull back long enough to breathe, and then return for more. He teased at her lips, then trailed hot kisses along her jaw, biting lightly on her earlobe before gathering her hair again in his hands and tugging her head back enough for him to explore the softness beneath her jaw. He groaned - animalistic and callow - pressing his lips to the curve between her throat and her shoulder. She pressed up against his touch, gasping when he sucked gently on her skin before returning to claim her mouth again.

Her hands had shifted. Somehow, she'd worried the hem of his shirt up towards his chest, and she pulled away from his lips long enough to drag it over his head and toss it to the floor. Purring deep in her throat, she trailed her fingertips down his body - shoulders, pectorals, abdomen - before hooking them into the waistband of his jeans, her heels pressing him even closer.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" Her eyes explored him as thoroughly as had her hands. Looking upwards, she caught his gaze. "It's like you're carved from marble."

"I'm just a man, Sasha."

"Thank heaven." Her fingers were tracing the muscles of his abdomen again, delving shallowly into his navel, moving up to travel along his ribs. She leaned forward to press her lips against his upper chest, at a spot just above his sternum, her tongue nimble as she tasted her way to the underside of his jaw, as her lips, and teeth, and tongue followed the same path his had mere moments before. Her breath was hot against his neck as she sighed before turning her face up to his.

He kissed her again - more softly this time as he teased at her mouth, as he relearned the wonder of her response. She'd matched his intensity kiss for kiss, and touch for touch. Even so, he knew that it would take a lifetime to truly know her - to unravel the enigma that was Sasha Tierney. He'd figured that out long before he even knew her name. And as much as he wanted this, as he ached for her in this exact moment, he also knew that she wasn't his to ache for. Neither of them were free.

His fingers tightened on the curve of her hips, the fabric of her dress tickling the backs of his hands. Her knees were tight on his hips, one heel pressing hard into the back of his thigh. Her fingers trembled against his stomach. She was as conflicted as he was. Damn it all to hell.

Somehow, she'd managed to worry the button of his jeans free. _So close. Too close._ Cursing beneath his breath, Tom pressed another kiss to her mouth before pulling away. He closed his eyes, lowering his forehead to rest on her crown. Seeking some semblance of control, he inhaled deeply before speaking. "Sasha."

"Don't say it." She shook her head, her voice tight. "Please, Tom. Don't."

"We can't do this." Despite the fact that he was about a heartbeat away from hefting her in his arms and carrying her back to bed. Despite the fact that he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to be with her. "We can't."

"Damn it, Tom."

"We both know it."

A sad laugh made its way past her lips. "You're right. I do. But I hate that I do."

Tom pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Me too."

 _"Son of a bitch."_

Sasha's eyes flew wide, and Tom froze. What the hell?

"Well, it's good to see that you're not brooding, Sasha."

Footsteps on the carpet. The heavy 'click' of the hotel door locking in place. The shushing of fabric against fabric as coats were being removed and folded over arms. Tom could place the sounds, but couldn't figure out why they were happening so close to where he stood with Sasha. Who would just have sauntered into the suite without notice or knocking.

And when he blinked, he could see the tableau in his head - could see exactly how it all looked to whoever it was who had walked in on them. Knew how it appeared. Hell - what it _was_.

Where he was entangled with her, her legs still bracketing his thighs, their arms wrapped around each other. Him bare-chested and Sasha with her nightgown-dress pushed up to her hips. Flushed faces, swollen lips. Bodies changed with touch and heat.

Sasha's eyes had darkened - hardened somehow. And even without looking around, Tom knew who it was standing behind him.

Slowly, Tom smoothed Sasha's dress back down towards her knees, moving back a half-step to allow her legs room to dangle over the edge of the counter, for her knees to meet and her ankles to cross. Hazarding a glance downward, Tom found his shirt where Sasha had tossed it on the floor. Bending, he grabbed it before turning halfway towards the entryway.

They were instantly recognizable as Sasha's parents. Even though he'd never seen pictures, the resemblance was too perfect. Sasha was the spitting image of her mother, but with her father's coloring. Nancine Tierney was as blonde as her husband was dark, but she'd passed the shape of her face and eyes on to her daughter. And while Arthur's hair was graying at the temples, it had once been as rich and dark as Sasha's. They were both tall and fit, although Nancine's face and neck were unnaturally taut. Botox. Or a face-lift. Maybe both.

"Well, Sasha." Arthur took his time dragging out the words. "It's good to see that you've bounced back so nicely. Your mother was worried that we'd find you here in dire straits. Inconsolable and forlorn."

"I'm not sure if I'm glad or disgusted to find you otherwise." Nancine perused the scene with a little wrinkle in her nose. "But then, I never know what to expect from you."

Son of a bitch was right. Tom felt Sasha tense behind him, knew that she was angry, and hurt, and embarrassed. Reaching out, he offered her his arm to balance against as she slid down to stand next to him. As soon as she was on her own feet, she found his hand and threaded her fingers through his.

"I suppose an introduction is forthcoming?"

"Mom. Dad." Sasha's throat was tight, but she straightened her shoulders and stood tall. "This is Tommy."

Just _Tommy_. She was giving him some anonymity. Trying, at least. With the Tierney's powerful connections, it wouldn't be too difficult to figure out who he truly was if they really wanted to.

"Tommy." Arthur pivoted on the heel of his shiny shoe and made his way past the kitchenette and into the living area. He threw his coat on the loveseat before continuing. "And do you have a last name?"

"It doesn't matter." Sasha's response was quick. Tugging on his hand, she pulled him out of the kitchen, past her mother in the entryway, and towards the bedroom. "He was just leaving, anyway."

Urging Tom through the bedroom doorway, Sasha closed the door behind them, giving them a modicum of privacy. "Get your stuff. You need to go."

Tom's jaw worked for a second before he answered her. Even with the door closed, he still spoke in a voice just over a whisper. "I can stay. Like you wanted before Christmas. A 'buffer', right?"

"I was intending to pass you off as a friend." Her teeth flashed white in an ironic kind of smile. "Platonic."

"We're friends, right?" But even to Tommy, the argument seemed inane now. After how they'd been discovered.

"That would not be a good idea." She crossed towards the bed, gathering up his jacket and boots. "We need to limit contact. If they find out who you are, they could ruin your career."

Pulling his t-shirt over his head, he made short work of fastening the gaping button at his waist and slipping his feet into the boots she'd handed him. "What about yours?"

She turned towards him, extending his jacket and studying his face before offering him a sad kind of smile. "They're already trying to destroy that. How about if one of us gets out of this unscathed, okay?"

"Sasha."

"I'll be fine, Tom." She handed him his jacket, then went back for his wallet and keys. "Take these and head home. I'll call you later."

"You'll be okay?"

"Yeah." She nodded.

"You sure?"

"Tom." Sasha rolled her eyes. "It's not like they expect anything different from me. I might as well live down to their expectations, right?"

"That's a pile of crap."

Tipping up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his again - quick and hard - then gave him a little shove towards the door. "I'll call you."

Tom turned the handle and opened the bedroom door, not at all surprised to see Nancine still standing in the entryway, her keen eyes studying him. Her lovely face was completely unreadable - a skill highly necessary for a diplomat. Tom took two strides towards her, then carefully sidled past her as she backed up to make way. It was a move as carefully orchestrated as a dance.

She watched him until he'd levered open the door and was on his way out into the hotel's hallway before she said anything.

"So, who used whom?" Nancine raised a perfectly groomed brow in Tom's direction, her question just as pointed. "Or was this a mutual kind of thing? What is it that you young people call it nowadays - a 'booty call'?"

Tom stopped. Holding the door open with his shoulder, he looked at the former Ambassador, studying her for a moment before responding. "Your daughter is a special woman, Mrs. Tierney."

"She's something." Nancine sighed. "That's for sure."

Just over Nacine's shoulder, he could see Sasha standing in the space between the hall and the kitchenette. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, her lips thin. Tom smiled at her - just a little. Just enough that the corner of her mouth tilted upwards in response.

"She's amazing." Tom returned his gaze to the Ambassador. "Sasha is strong, and intelligent, and funny. She's loyal, and beautiful, and any other parents would be proud to have her as a daughter."

Mrs. Tierney's eyes narrowed, her mouth drawing into a flat line.

"You might want to figure that out before she decides that she's done trying to prove herself to you." Tom cast another glance over Nancine's shoulder at Sasha before turning and striding down the hall towards the elevator.

The door locked heavily behind him - the metallic 'click' identical to the sound that a magazine made when seated into a weapon. A final sound, yet one that had always signaled readiness.

And for the life of him, Tom couldn't tell if everything was over, or if the war had just begun.

 _Author's Note: Sasha's list of "sordid behavior" is actually (kind of) my own. My friend and I did the Louvre thing in the Summer of 1990, I was kicked out of the basement of the Library of Congress In the Spring of 1987 for "shuffling off to Buffalo" in its extraordinarily acoustically-pleasing foyer, and I poured 7 gallons of dishwashing detergent into a fountain shaped like a volcano in Hawaii. I never flashed any monks, but then - I'm not dead yet. There's still time. ;-)_


	15. Tirado (Tossed)

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 _ **Tirado**_

 **(Tossed)**

"So, I got a disturbing phone call last weekend."

Tom looked up from the book in his hands, swiveling around until he found the source of the voice. He'd arrived at the college hours before anyone else - when a guy couldn't sleep, there really wasn't any reason to stay in bed, was there? He'd been on campus before dawn every day since classes had resumed a few weeks before.

Up until he'd heard the voice, however, he thought he'd been alone this particular morning. The Commander's presence had startled Tom. "Sir?"

Raising a brow, Sheffield caught up to him on the sidewalk, gesturing towards Tom with his coffee cup. "Your dad. He let me know what was going on with your mom."

Ah. Tom nodded. "It certainly made for a different kind of holiday."

"Not as festive as it might have been."

That was an understatement. "My mother still insisted on celebrations. She's ornery that way."

Sheffield's friendly face eased into a grin. "I've always liked her. She's good people."

"Yeah." Tom's gaze dropped down towards his shoes. It was easier than seeing the burgeoning compassion in his CO's eyes. "She is."

"So, I guess it goes without saying that if you need to head south, we'll make it happen." Sheffield took another swig from his cup. "I mean, we like you around here and all, but there's some wiggle room for you since you're not technically on active duty yet."

Tom felt himself smile. "So far, she's feeling okay. I'm not sure that she's quite accepted what the doctors have been saying. I'm fairly certain that if I quit things here and ran back home, she'd kill me herself."

The Commander's eyes narrowed in thought. "Your dad would probably help."

"True'" Lifting a shoulder in resigned agreement, Tom nodded. "But then, he's had it out for me since I joined the Navy."

"Yes. Grunts have no sense of humor whatsoever."

"None."

Sheffield snorted and motioned towards the closest building with his thumb. "Were you heading to your office?"

Tom nodded. "Just wanted to get a little writing in before class."

"How close are you to finishing?"

"Very close, actually. I'm nearly done with the conclusion. I've got to flesh out a few sections and complete the annotations, but other than that, I'm pretty much done."

"Scuttlebutt is that your last draft was spot on. Colonel Richards said that even he'd learned a few things." Sheffield huffed a little. "I know that he's not your advisor, but that's got to count for something."

"Good to know." They'd fallen into an easy pace along the sidewalk, Tom adjusting his stride to match that of the shorter man. "I've never been much of a writer."

"But you're getting close."

"I'm close."

"So now, all you have to do is re-qualify on the range and once the medical comes through, you can be re-assed to an active post."

"I qualified as expert marksman years ago, Sir."

"And how long has it been since you shot regularly?"

He couldn't quibble with that. "A while. The last time I went out on the sniper range with Lugo, I didn't hit a damned thing."

Sheffield laughed out loud at that. "Well, thank the Good Lord that you aren't perfect. I was starting to feel a little on the short end of the stick."

Tom pressed his lips tightly against an answer that would have put his future at stake. He was far, far from perfect. The only thing anywhere near perfect about him was his ability to become hopelessly attached to exactly the wrong woman.

Unbidden, Sasha's image welled up in his memory, the silk of her hair tangled in his fingers, the elegant curve of her throat, how her lips had parted on a sigh, her knees tight against his hips. He could still feel her body beneath his palms. He could still smell her. Even here, walking next to his Commanding Officer, his soul tingled at the recollection, her words shushing through his mind.

 _"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"_

 _"I'm just a man, Sasha."_

 _"Thank heaven."_

 _Her breath had been warm against his skin._

Tom forced himself away from those thoughts, focusing on the feel of the book in his hand, and the sound of his boots on the pavement. He'd been living in weird state of limbo lately. Existing in some kind of hazy, befuddled half-life - not entirely sure of anything other than the fact that he was still breathing, still working, still writing, still wondering what exactly had happened.

He missed her. That was certain. He'd missed her from the moment the elevator doors had opened in her hallway, his body thrumming with worry. He'd checked a dozen times whether the phone in his pocket was on, just so that he wouldn't miss her if she reached out to him.

Only, she hadn't called.

Not later the day that he'd left her at the hotel, not the next day, nor the next. Not at all. And damned if he couldn't figure out if he was angry about that or relieved.

Regardless, Tom had finally stopped waiting. He'd showered. He'd changed clothes. He'd done a few loads of laundry as he'd worked on the next-to-last section of his thesis. He'd stopped by the clinic on his way to the College and made another physical therapy appointment. He'd picked up the new schedule at the yoga studio. He'd called home daily. Speaking with his mother had been difficult - she was playing dumb about the situation, and refusing to discuss her illness and treatment. His father, on the other hand, wanted to talk about nothing else.

It was almost a comfort to head back to the college - to lose himself in work and writing. He'd found it possible to completely sublimate the fact that she was in his classes, or passing in the hallways, or just an arm's length away on the stairs. When she spoke, he simply listened, not looking at her. It had been easy to allow Alexeev or Bermudez to answer her questions or respond to her when she'd offered analysis. He'd stepped back. He'd moved away.

He'd found a way to build the wall he'd planned at the beginning - when he thought that he might be able to expunge her from his core.

He tried not to acknowledge that his resolve was all a carefully fabricated lie.

So, Tom Chandler - perfect?

Summoning up a half-smile, Tom shook his head. "Far from it, Sir."

Sheffield made an odd, strangled little sound around his coffee."Right. Anyway. So, take some time. Get yourself out on the range. Brush up on your skills. Let's get you back on a ship. We'll be sad to lose you when the time comes, but you're needed elsewhere."

"I've appreciated this opportunity, Sir."

"Luckily, I think that Alexeev's staying on at the College indefinitely."

"I'll bet his wife's happy about that."

Sheffield's expression grew wary. "Well, she's busy gestating, so I haven't had the cojones to ask her. Pregnant women can be touchy about that kind of thing."

They'd reached the entrance, and Tom tugged the door open, standing aside to allow the Commander to pass through first. As the heavy panel swung shut behind them, Tom pulled to a halt where Sheffield had paused where the foyer split between hallways and the staircase, finally finding a somewhat suitable response. "She'll be glad to have him around when the baby comes."

"He's uncommonly excited at the prospect of fatherhood." Sheffield flashed a wry smile. "If he could, I truly think he'd have the baby himself. In fact, I think he's probably trying to figure out how to lactate."

The image made Tom cringe a little. "He seems to have eased up a little since our last meeting. He isn't chomping at the bit to fail the entire class anymore."

"True." Sheffield squinted over at Tom, his expression speculative. "Although I haven't told him about the run-in I had with Ensign Tierney's parents over the holiday."

Tom swallowed, suddenly tense. "Sir?"

"They're an interesting couple. Had a lot to say about their daughter that I wasn't too happy to hear."

Anger surged through him, hot and raw. Clenching his teeth, Tom fought to keep his expression implacable. "What kinds of things did they say?"

Sheffield made a random gesture with the hand still holding the coffee cup. "Just stuff from the past. Her father ranted about some trouble she'd gotten into as a teenager. Said some self-righteous crap about the military keeping their girl from fulfilling her familial obligations. Taking her rightful place in the family business. You know. Soap opera crap."

"Anything we need to worry about?"

The older man actually thought about that for a moment. "I don't think so. She couldn't have made it through the Academy if she weren't driven, intelligent, and committed. As far as I'm concerned, whatever she did before she took her oath is ancient history."

Tom chose his tone carefully. "She's kind of a wild card. Too smart for her own good. She doesn't really mesh well into the team."

"She's exactly who we need in this effort, Tom. We both know that." Sheffield thought for a moment as he took a little sip of coffee and swallowed. "Besides, she's passed her security clearances. That's good enough for me, past bad behavior be damned."

"Sometimes, history has a way of catching up with us." He'd spoken quickly, without filtering his words, then found himself passing a surreptitious look at the older man to gauge his response.

"It's old news." Surprisingly, Sheffield offered a goofy sort of grin, oblivious to Tom's discomfort. "To quote Rafiki, 'it's in 'de past!'"

"Who?"

"Rafiki." The Commander's brows drew together. "Lion King. The baboon guy with the stick. Keeps hitting people with it. I always think that he's going to drop the baby lion off the cliff, and he never does. You know - Rafiki."

Tom shook his head, frowning. "I'm sorry - I don't - "

Drawing himself up as tall as he could, Sheffield sucked in a deep breath. "Once you have kids, Lieutenant, you'll get it. Until then - get your behind on the range." And with that, he clapped a hand on Tom's shoulder and strode down the gleaming tiled hallway.

-OOOOOOO-

"Well, hell's bells, Tommy. I was starting to think you didn't love me anymore."

Tom grunted, setting his weapon down on the table. Reaching into the thigh pocket of his trousers, he gripped the extra magazines he'd stowed there, and set them down next to the rifle. "So, I take it you're the guy I see about re-qualifying?"

"Well, I'm not the guy you see about all that Russian crap that you keep spouting, that's for sure."

"True." Tom nudged the magazines into perfect alignment with the tip of his finger before folding his arms across his chest and sending a look down towards the far end of the range where a dozen or so targets had been attached to hay bales and swing-stands. "However good you are with making things blow up, you're completely useless at the Russian crap."

The shooting range was situated on the farthest reaches of the campus, where a large, forested hill created a natural backstop. The acres around the range had been fenced off so that nobody inadvertently wandered into the line of fire, and, over the years, the shooting line had been built up with a dozen or so concrete stands fitted with tables and shelves to stow gear and ammunition.

That was the extent of the provided amenities, however. Lugo had made a few improvements during his posting there - the collapsible camping chair he'd been lounging on had become a near-permanent fixture over the past few months as he'd put the recruits through their paces. It was rumored that he also had a cooler stashed somewhere nearby, filled with sodas and snacks. Lugo Bermudez was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts.

Tom watched as his friend stood, stretching in the early morning chill. He was looking good - he'd lost some of the vapid restlessness he'd been wallowing in at the start of the semester, and was more focused. He seemed truly comfortable with himself, rather than just full of bluster. "How was your Christmas?"

"Good." Bermudez grinned widely, bracing his fingertips at his waist. "Good. Partied a little. Got a little drunk - but not too much. I still remember it all, and it wasn't half-bad."

"You didn't go home?"

"No, man." Shaking his head, Lugo made an odd, random motion into the air. "My mom and my Tia Valeria went to Puerto Penasco to see some family, but I didn't have that much time off, so I stayed here and finished rifling some barrels and organizing the ammo rooms. And I attached the new scopes to the M4s."

"Sounds like a good time."

"It wasn't bad. Martin and I hung out. Played some video games. Watched some movies. Met some people."

There was more to it than that. Tom could tell by the gleam in his friend's eye. "People? Or girls?"

"Girls." Shrugging, Lugo paused for dramatic effect, as his face broke into an impossible sort of grin. "Or, should I say, 'girl'."

"Oh, really?" Tom took a few steps backwards, leaning against the concrete wall of the shooting box. "What's she like?"

"Her name's Maxine."

"Nice."

"She's cute. She's shorter than I am, but fit. Curvy where it counts, you know? She's got dark hair and eyes, and is smart, even though she laughs at all my stupid jokes. She's different. Like- totally different than the other girls I've known."

"Sounds promising."

Lugo nodded. "I mean - it's only been a few weeks and all, but she's just - like - _damn_ , you know?. I like her."

"Just _like_ her?"

"I _really_ like her."

Tom smiled. "Sounds serious."

"It is - I mean, it's not, yet." Lugo ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "But it's got potential."

"Is she military?"

"Nah. Not Navy or anything like that."

Tom shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his NWUs and waited for the inevitable shoe.

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"Why would I laugh?"

Bermudez screwed up his face for a minute as he steeled himself to deliver what came next. "She's a cop."

"As in - "

"A police officer. The law. The Fuzz." Scrubbing at his chin with the backs of his fingers, Lugo launched into an explanation. "She was closing down a bar on Christmas Eve. The party got to be a little much, and she came in with a few of her cop friends to shut things down. I helped her subdue this big drunk tourist guy, and she repaid me by giving me her number."

Tom's eyes widened. "You didn't even have to ask her for it?"

"Well, it was her card. Technically, she's an investigator of some sort in the department. She told me to call her if I thought of anything else she needed to know about the fight."

"So, it's not like she was soliciting an invitation from you."

"Let's just say that I remembered all kinds of crap about the fight." Bermudez nodded, his lips parting in a Cheshire grin. "And it took an entire dinner for me to tell her all of it."

"Of course it did."

"Hey, man. She didn't complain."

Tom lifted a brow. "And now?"

"She's succumbed to my charms and good looks, naturally."

"Naturally."

Bermudez's grin faded into something different. More real, somehow. Looking down at his clasped hands, he breathed out a sigh. "She's the whole package, Tommy. In fact, I think that she could have taken that big drunk idiot down on her own. She just let me think I'd helped. She's really pretty freaking amazing."

"I can tell." Shaking his head gently, Tom smiled. This side of Lugo was new - and mildly surprising. For as long as Tom had known Bermudez, he'd avoided any relationship that had even the barest possibility of becoming something notable. Now, he was gushing as eloquently as he was able about a woman he'd barely met. It had to be serious.

"I'm not going to screw this up, man."

"I'm sure you won't."

His look turning speculative, Bermudez narrowed a calculating glare at the Lieutenant. "Not like you're apparently screwing up with your fiery little Ensign."

Well, dammit. Tom couldn't resist the impulse to roll his eyes. "She's not mine. And you know how it has to be, Lugo."

"But she _could_ be yours. If you'd just get cleared, signed off, and reassigned."

"It doesn't work that way."

"It kind of does." Lugo rose, grabbing the rifle that Tom had brought. With a practiced motion, he drew back the bolt and inspected the chamber. Apparently satisfied, he threw the bolt back and engaged the hammer with a muted _snick_. "If you're not in the same chain of command, you're good to go."

Tom considered for a long beat before reaching out and grabbing the rifle away from his friend. "It's not that easy."

"Well, it's not if you're making it harder than it has to be on purpose."

"I'm not making anything harder than it has to be." Stretching slightly, Tom snatched the topmost magazine from the pile he'd arranged earlier. "The situation is complex. And how the hell did we get to talking about me? Weren't we talking about you and your cop girlfriend?"

"The difference is that I'm admitting to wanting to have Maxine in my life." Lugo watched with an uncommon amount of interest as Tom positioned the magazine and then rammed it home. With a little roll of his eyes, he shrugged. "It sounds like you don't even want to be with Sasha."

Tom checked the seat of the magazine and then lowered the rifle to rest in the crook of his other arm. "It's complicated. _She_ is complicated."

"She's perfect for you, man." Lugo smiled, taking a step closer. "She's the only woman I've ever known who has you this _tirado_."

"Tirado?"

"Yeah - _tirado_. Tossed around. Messed up. Discombobulated."

"Discombobulated."

"You're freaking out, friend." Lugo smacked Tom's chest with the back of his hand. "You know it. I know it. All the guys know it. The only one who doesn't know how hard you've fallen is _her_. Not cool, Tommy. So not cool."

There was nothing to say that wouldn't make Tom sound like a punk kid, so he stayed stubbornly silent. Pivoting on his heel, he made his way to the table in the shooting box, squinting downrange at the targets fastened to bales of hay and swinging from a large metal scaffold. "Anyway, I've got to requalify on the range, so I probably ought to get started on that. I've been putting it off trying to complete my thesis. So, this is really not the right time for this conversation."

"Just like that?"

Tom's jaw worked a few times before he could speak. When he did, his voice felt like gravel. "Just like that."

Lugo huffed a little, shaking his head. Backing away, he threw a gesture at the range. "Go ahead, Tom. Do what you gotta do. But don't come running crying to me when she figures you out and sails out on the first ship to China."

Frowning, Tom raised the rifle to his shoulder, turning away from the disapproval on his friend's face. It had been too long - the position felt unnatural and strained. He fought a little with the angle and his stance, re-learning exactly how to ease a look down the sight, how to lean into the barrel.

He found the target, but for some reason, his finger refused to finesse the trigger. He felt paralyzed again. Like those first days after he'd been injured, when drugs and pain had kept him still. As if he weren't able to complete the motion. He was being held back - prevented from acting by situation and fear.

The metal against his cheek and chin felt warm - affected by his own heat and breath. The rifle was heavy in his hands. His arms, unaccustomed to the weight, strained to keep it steady. Sliding his finger along the trigger, he clenched his jaw and let out a long, slow breath.

" _Tell me something real." She'd asked. "Tell me something real."_

 _But what was real was also a contortion of reality._ _What was real was seeming like the lie._

" _Tell me something real."_

"She didn't call." Tom's words surprised even himself. He didn't know who he we was really talking to - Bermudez or himself - but he staggered on, anyway. "She was drunk at some bar, and called me for a ride. I'd just driven up to my apartment, and I got a phone call from some random bar manager. I picked her up, took her home, and made sure she was safe."

The weapon in his hands seemed to lower on its own volition, until the butt found the ground, and the barrel was leaning against Chandler's leg, held in place by his fingertips. "I slept there. She asked me to. Nothing happened - I couldn't take advantage of her. Not how she was."

A shuffling in the hard-packed dirt behind him told Tom that Lugo was still there, and listening. "The next morning, I got up to go home, but I was stupid and stayed. I was hungry, I guess. Hell of an excuse. There were donuts. Stupid thing to remember, right? Pastries and fruit and coffee."

He glanced over his left shoulder to see his friend simply standing there, waiting. "Did you know her parents own that damned hotel? They practically own half of the whole damned city. They're rich. We're not talking flashy, 'I've got a great job' rich, we're talking 'old money rich'. Her mother is a diplomat - an Ambassador. They're the top echelon of the upper crust."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything? They aren't better than anyone else."

"They don't approve of Sasha being in the military. They are decidedly not supportive."

Lugo waited for a beat before offering a gentle prompt. "And?"

"And so we - Sasha and I - were having breakfast. We were together in the tiny kitchenette in her hotel room. Close. Things got - complex, you know?"

"As in - " Lugo made a gesture that might have been crude in any other situation. "Complex?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah. And I knew I should just stop - should just walk away. I knew I needed to leave. But I just couldn't. She's just so - "

"Perfect?"

"No. And that's the incomprehensible thing. She's impossible. She's ornery. She's opinionated and brash. But she's also funny and and I never know which Sasha I'm going to meet." Tom craned his head back to look at the weather-pitted concrete ceiling overhead. "But she's wormed her way in. She's under my skin. She's everywhere. I can't do anything, go anywhere, see anything without wanting her to be there. My fingers itch. I - "

When Tom fell silent, Lugo provided a brilliant summation. "You want her."

"It's like an ache, Lugo. It's physically painful not to be with her."

"You _love_ her."

Tom shook that off. "I don't know. She's like a disease. I know that it's going to kill me, but I still don't want to be cured."

"So? Did you do the deed?"

Tom's eyes closed on a muffled groan. "No. Her parents walked in. It was like a nightmare right out of prom night in high school."

"Damn that crap to hell."

"She tried to pass me off as some dude she'd just met, some one-night stand, but I'm sure that they knew something else was going on." He passed a glance at his friend. "I had a word or two with her mother and then hightailed it out of there. Sasha had practically thrown me out, anyway."

"What did she say afterwards?" Lugo leaned a shoulder back against the concrete wall behind him. "You guys have talked since then, right?"

Somehow, he couldn't summon up the energy to even shake his head. Tom merely blinked. "She said she would. I texted her a few times to make sure she was okay, but she never answered. She never called me back. She's the one who doesn't want this. She's the one that doesn't want me."

For what seemed like hours, the only sounds in his ears was the rushing of the breeze through the shooting box and the slight shushing of leaves in the grove behind them. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, the blood rushing though his veins, the torturous thoughts ricocheting around in his head. He felt weak, and exhausted, and torn - his soul as damaged as his body once had been.

Lugo's presence was a comfort - Tom was pretty sure it was the only thing holding him together at the moment. And then he cursed himself a fool for being such a freaking pansy. How had he come to this? When one woman could lay him low?

"How long has it been?"

Tom forced himself to look at Bermudez. "Since New Year's. Six weeks."

"And she hasn't spoken to you at all?"

"In class. Student to teacher. Nothing else."

"Damn."

"So, you see? It's not me. I came when she called me. I drove her home, and I let things cross the line. I showed her that I was all-in." Tom swallowed, hard, his throat working past the pain constricting it. "But I think it's pretty clear what she wants."

"Tommy."

"She's made her decision, Lugo." Tom speared his friend with a odd kind of look, half-resolution, half-despair. "She chose what she wanted. And it wasn't me."


	16. Pity For Fools

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Pity for Fools**

He'd submitted his thesis.

He hadn't been able to sleep, anyway, so he'd just given up on it and had worked, instead. His advisor had accepted the bound printout with a raised brow, skepticism clear in his expression.

"Are you sure? This is even earlier than we'd discussed."

"It's as done as it's going to be." Tom tapped it with the curled knuckle of his index finger. "The longer I work on it, the worse it gets."

Dr. Lange leaned against the frame of his office door, looking down at the bound volume in his hands. "It is indeed possible to over-edit."

"And I'd definitely gotten to that point. It's done."

"Okay, Let me get copies to your committee, and once we've all had a chance to read it, we'll gather for your defense. You've included the disk?"

"It's there. There's a pocket thingy on the back cover. I formatted it a few different ways, just in case." Tom shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "What kind of timeline are we looking at, Sir?"

"I'm not certain." Lange thought about it for a moment. "A couple of weeks, tops."

Nodding, Tom took a half-step backwards. "All right. Sounds good."

"I'll contact you as soon as the committee is finished."

"Yes, Sir." Tom turned, heading towards the hallway that led out of the department's rabbit-warren of offices. Just before he'd reached the doorway, Lange's voice had him pivoting back around.

"Your mom." The civilian professor had taken several steps towards Tom, the thesis tucked into the crook of his elbow. "How is she?"

Ah. The money question. The real reason that Tom had ramped up his schedule. "Not good, Sir. We were hoping for a miracle, but it doesn't look like we're going to get it."

The other man's face fell a little. "I'm so sorry, Tom. I'll make sure this takes top priority."

Compassion from other people was something Tom was used to, yet still uncomfortable with. He hadn't told many people about his family's struggles. Lugo, Sheffield, and Lange were the only people other that Tom that were aware of his mother's illness at all, and he hadn't told anyone other than Sheffield about the drastic turn his mother had taken the week before. The treatments hadn't even made a dent in the damage being done. When Patricia had quietly demanded to go home, it had been agreed that it was for the best. It was just a matter of time, and then her pain would be over.

Tom had knocked on Sheffield's door and made the call.

He honestly hadn't thought about that part long enough to have settled on emotion yet. He just knew how other people would respond to his pain. He'd already heard all of the normal responses. And he still had no clue exactly how he was supposed to respond.

Tom had lived through his share of platitudes. Kind, honest doctors, efficient and caring nurses - they'd all retreated to the clinical to describe what had happened to his body, and how it had fared. A myriad of physical therapists had encouraged and cajoled him through his recovery. And the visitors - local military moms clubs, clergymen, and hospital volunteers - they'd worn their pity like armor, as if being sorry for someone's pain could inure them from ever feeling the same. Months of "I'm sorrys" and "I can't imagines". Even more months of "you'll get theres" and "we're so proud of yous" and "you've come a long ways". What were those words supposed to accomplish? What the hell did it all even mean?

The worst by far were those who had told him, "I know how you must feel." Tom had wanted to scream at each of them; had wanted to rage against the falseness of that cliche. _How_? How could they know what it was like to be blown out of the sky? How could they have any idea what it was like to crawl through burning fuel, dragging the limp forms of his injured team? How it felt to lie next to them, his hands covered in blood as he tried to tend to their wounds, only to hear their death rattles and know his efforts were in vain? How could outsiders - civilians - _normal_ people - possibly know the pain, the fear, and the confusion?

He'd been angry during much of his recuperation, but he'd struggled to understand why. Angry at the military? At his country for sending him into harm's way? At the enemy who had shot him out of the sky? Angry at his body, which had refused to heal? Angry at God? Ultimately, it had dawned on him. It had been the loneliness. He'd been surrounded by medical professionals, family, and do-gooders, yet through it all, he'd always been alone. He had to feel the pain, he had to do the work, he alone knew what he'd endured. The surety that nobody would know exactly what he'd been through rankled. There would never be anyone who could truly understand what he'd been through, therefore there would never be anyone who truly understood _him_.

" _I know how you must feel."_

" _No." Tom had wanted to say. "You absolutely do not. And by saying so, you make yourself the worst kind of hypocrite."_

So, rather than talk about his dying mother, he'd focused instead on work. _Escaped_ , was the word Mindi had used.

It was an apt description.

"Lieutenant?"

Startled, Tom looked up at the professor in the doorway. At his expectant expression. "I'm sorry. I must have zoned out there for a moment."

"No - it's understandable."Lange offered a small smile. "I was just saying that you don't need to worry about anything. From what we've discussed, I'm certain that everything will go well with your paper and your defense."

Chandler glanced at the volume in Lange's grasp before looking back up at the older man. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that."

And, because there were no other platitudes to give, Tom headed out the door.

—OOOOOOOOO—-

"Can you talk?"

He'd barely made it to his truck before his phone had vibrated in his pocket. Tom had answered it with one hand while turning the key with the other.

"I can always talk for you, Pipsqueak."

Mindi sighed on the other end of the line, a sound that Tom had become eerily used to lately. "Well, it's been a fairly positive day. She hasn't needed many pain pills, and the nausea from the chemo is nearly gone."

"Good."

"Chris and the girls will be here tonight. My principal has approved my extended Leave of Absence, so we'll be setting up house here for the near future."

"Have you heard from Rob?"

"He'll be here Friday night. The people at his new job haven't been as forgiving as mine."

"How long is he staying?"

"Through the weekend."

Tom turned and leaned back against the door of his truck, gazing up at the gray clouds overhead. It had stormed the day before - wet snow mixed with freezing rain - the perfect weather to suit his mood. It would be warmer in the truck, but he'd just hiked out to the furthest reaches of the parking lot from the opposite side of campus, so the cold air felt refreshing. "And will Sophie be joining him this time?"

"Sophia, Tom. Remember? She doesn't like being called 'Sophie'."

"Too pedantic?"

Mindi's smile was palpable even across hundreds of miles. "She told me that 'Sohpie' wasn't distinguished."

"It's one damned syllable." Despite himself, Tom grinned down towards the dirty snow piled around a cement berm a few yards away. "Who gets all bent out of shape about a syllable?"

"Maybe we should start calling Rob 'Robert' again?"

"What, and make Lady Sophia of Snobberton happy? I don't think so."

Mindi laughed aloud at that. "Lady Sophia? You know that I'll have to call her that from now on."

"I'll totally support you in that endeavor."

Mindi giggled a little, then breathed out another sigh. "I miss you, Loser."

The feeling was more than mutual. Not only did he miss the company of his little sister, he felt guilty for not being there helping out. Running his free hand through his hair, he lowered his voice on his promise. "I'll be there soon."

"I know." Mindi's answer was quick - too quick, and too bright by half. "Did you turn it in?"

He'd told her the night before that he'd printed out the final version of his thesis. She'd wished him luck. "Yes. It has been submitted. It is now pending approval, and all that's lacking is my defense of it."

"And after that, you're a Master of something."

"That's what they say."

"Mom will be prouder that proud."

Truth be told, that was the only reason that Tom hadn't resigned his position at the College and taken Sheffield's offer of leave. "I know. That's the whole plan. Now we just need to arrange a shotgun wedding for Rob and Lady Sophia, and she'll be able to - "

 _Die happy._

He'd almost acknowledged it - the fact that his mother was dying. He'd nearly made a joke out of it. His gut lurched, and he closed his eyes against a wave of shame.

"Tommy." His sister's voice soothed across the distance. Of course she'd know why he'd fallen silent. "Don't beat yourself up. She's talking openly about it, making little jokes. Yesterday, she told Dad that he was allowed to start dating when she was gone, as long as he didn't bring a floozy to the funeral."

"Geez, Mindi."

"It doesn't mean that it hurts any less." Wiser than he was by miles, his little sister. "It just means that it's easier to deal with when we aren't all dancing around the issue. Isn't it human nature to deal in dark humor during a crisis? And it's not just now with Mom. You should have heard some of the stuff that we talked about when you were in the coma."

Squinching his eyes tight, Tom allowed his head to fall back against the truck's frame. It landed with a dull 'clunk'. "It was the hair, right? Did I have a bad hair coma?"

"No - it was mostly jokes about the catheter." Mindi snorted a little. "But the hair was a close second. It grew by the second, it seemed. By the time you were out of danger, it resembled a giant golden cloud hovering around your head."

"Ouch." Tom smiled against the phone. "I hope that there aren't any pictures."

"If there are, I'm saving them for fun times. Like when I meet your bride-to-be for the first time."

There came that bad mood again. "Don't get your hopes up, Pipsqueak. Marriage is far, far in the future for me."

"She still hasn't called, huh?"

It took Tom a minute to respond to that. A minute where the disappointment that had settled deep in his gut churned a little. "No."

"Talk to her, Tommy."

"It's obvious what she wants, Mindi. And that's not me."

His sister grunted just a bit. "Tom, this is ridiculous. I know that you feel bound by the regs here, but in a week, you're going to be completely outside her chain of command. You'll be headed home, on leave between Navy gigs, and she'll still be under the auspices of the College. There will be no fraternization at all."

"Can we just not discuss this?"

"Can you just not be a total bonehead about this?"

Rolling his eyes, Tom stood up straight and turned, reaching for the handle of his truck door. It was getting chilly. "I'm not being a bonehead."

"Oh, good lord. Now you're being obtuse and a bonehead."

Hefting himself up in to the truck, Tom shifted the phone into his other hand so that he could reach into his pocket for the keys. "I love you, too, Min."

"Listen, Loser. I was actually calling you to tell you some big news. But if you're going to be a coward about this whole Sasha thing, I'll hold that news hostage."

"What's the news?"

"We found out what the baby is today. Boy or girl."

Tom inserted the key into the ignition switch, turning it one notch to let the Diesel engine warm up. "That's valuable information."

"Hence its new hostage status."

"I'll find out eventually, you realize."

"Sure. In four months." Mindi's voice had taken on a snotty tone. "And you've never been good with waiting for that kind of information."

"Damn it."

"Talk to her, Tom."

He sobered a little, all teasing aside. Leaning back against the vinyl of the ancient truck seat, he glared out at the dirty, slushy parking lot from his vantage point over the steering wheel. "I'll do what I can."

"Talk. To. Her."

There was no point in arguing. He wasn't going to win this one, either way. Closing his eyes on a long exhale, he nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

—-—-OOOOOOOO—

He'd already started packing once it became apparent that his mother wasn't going to beat the odds. The little apartment was on a month-to-month lease, so all he'd lose was the last month's rent, which Tom figured was fair. The meager belongings he'd moved in were easy to throw into a few boxes and duffel bags, and what he didn't want, he'd leave at a certain place near the apartment building's maintenance shed. It seemed to be where tenants left usable, but unwanted stuff. He needed to leave the furnishings that had been included with his lease, but the was torn about the lawn chair and milk crate on the tiny terrace.

He'd done a lot of thinking comfortable splayed on that chair, eaten too many meals using that crate as a table. They seemed too familiar to simply toss.

Tom ran a thumb along the edge of the crate. It had sustained damage in the years before it had landed in Tom's care. Thick pits were gouged out of the green plastic, and even more of the compound had been shaved off in rough flakes. Several pieces of the heavy lattice-work making up the sides were missing all-together, creating oddly shaped holes in the otherwise even pattern. Still, the crate was just as serviceable as it had been the day it was ejected from the mold. A little beat up, but still useful.

There was an allegory, there, but Tom decided he didn't want to think too hard about it. He was afraid that it would end up being about himself, and he wasn't certain that he wanted to feel kinship with a milk crate - no matter how inspiring the story.

And he was leaving before his job was truly over, which probably wouldn't fit the Useful Crate narrative. Alexeev was thrilled with the prospect of taking the class the rest of the way. After patting Tom awkwardly on the shoulder, he'd offered a smart salute and vowed to make their students "reach heights previously unknown unto anyone."

A quick glance at Sheffield had told Tom that the Commander didn't know what that entailed, either, but there wasn't really time to question it. Lange had pushed the committee to allow Tom to defend his thesis as soon as was humanly possible, and they'd approved a time first thing Monday morning. If everything went well, he'd be home by Tuesday night.

Which left Tom entirely too much time to stew in his mostly-packed and newly-scrubbed apartment.

Friday had been spent clearing out his office and saying goodbye to the office staff. He'd broken the news about his mother's condition to Shawna as gently as possible, but the sweet secretary had still ended up in tears. While Tom was transferring research from the hard drive to his disks, he'd overheard her ordering up a giant vase full of flowers to be delivered to the house in Georgia. He'd had to take a moment at that, overwhelmed at the gesture. For one of the first times, it hadn't felt like pity, but something born of true kindness.

Maybe he'd grown as a person.

He'd already said his goodbyes to Jackson and the staff at the clinic. He hadn't been back since they'd signed the all-important medical release declaring him to be in full health. He'd already spoken with Lugo when he'd requalified on the range a few days ago. Tom had suggested getting the guys together for one last night out, but he'd forgotten that Lugo had a girlfriend now.

Weekends were for couples.

The TV was already packed, as were all of his DVDs and CDs. It wouldn't be too difficult to dig through a box and find something to read, but Tom found that he lacked that kind of motivation. He could call home, but he'd only just spoken to his father - and he didn't want the interrupt the family now that Rob and Sophia were there.

Shifting a little in his lawn chair, Tom crossed his hands over his abdomen. The temperature had dropped quickly once the sun had sunk low, but the gray wool pullover his mother had knitted him a few years back kept out most of the chill. It just seemed right - wearing something his mom's hands had created. Made him feel closer to her.

Looking down, he turned his hand to be able to see his watch. Just after nine. Maybe he should just go to bed. Not that he'd be able to sleep. Exhausted as he was lately, he'd been too edgy for rest. Too many things bounding around in his head.

A rumble in his gut reminded him that he hadn't had dinner yet. His fridge was nearly empty, as were his cupboards. He'd already packed anything he could cook with. Standing, he made his way back into the apartment, sliding the glass door closed behind him. He grabbed his wallet and keys, grabbing his jacket from where he'd tossed it over the back of the couch. Surely, even though the tourists were long gone, he could find a restaurant open late. He'd just reached for the door handle when he heard the knock.

Tom hesitated briefly before turning the deadbolt and easing the door open. He didn't check the peephole. Somehow, he knew exactly who it was.

She stood expectantly under the meager lighting of the landing outside his apartment - her stance a little uneasy. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, her scarf wrapped up to her determined chin. She'd pulled a knitted cap down over her head, disguising the sheen of her hair. She looked disheveled, as if she'd thrown the ensemble together without thought.

Even so, Tom's heart lurched.

"I'm sorry." Tilting back on her heels, Sasha glanced up at him briefly before refocusing on the apartment number nailed haphazardly beneath the peephole of his door. "I shouldn't be here. I know that."

Sighing, Tom leaned forward, resting his shoulder against the door. "What do you need, Sasha?"

"Nothing." She shook her head. "Well, something, but nothing. Not really."

"Nothing? Then you can go, right?"

"Tom, please don't be like that."

"Okay." Frowning, he tried again. "Then why are you here?"

For the first time since he'd opened the door, she looked him directly in the eye. Her lips parted as she drew in a deep breath, and she pulled her hands from her pockets to loosen the scarf at her throat. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That you're leaving."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Could you please just answer me?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer than he'd thought it would be. "Where did you hear that?"

"Lugo." She shifted on her feet, pulling another loop of her scarf away from her face. "Lugo told me."

"What did he say?"

"Just that you were leaving. That you were resigning your post here and going back to Georgia."

Ah. Tom looked down at her shoes. She hadn't worn boots - she had sneakers on. The canvas kind normally worn in the summer. They were covered in wet, melting snow. "Yeah. It's true."

"Why? The program doesn't end for another few months."

His jaw clenched, and Tom had to release the tension before he could answer. "I've got my reasons."

"But if you leave now, will you be able to finish your Master's? What about your career? Are you going to be able to accept a commission after so long? Did you ever get your medical papers signed? Have you requalified on the range? You've come so far - "

"Sasha - "

But she barreled through his protest. "Seriously, Tom. You can't leave now. You need to finish this. What are you thinking? You can't just quit."

Straightening, he opened the door wider, taking a step forward. "I'm not quitting."

"But Tom - "

"Geez, Sasha, Will you just shut up and listen?"

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "As if you ever listen to anyone else. You're the least communicative person I've ever met."

He made a sound in the depths of his throat. Like a laugh being strangled by rage. "That's rich, coming from you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Seven weeks, Sasha! It's been nearly two months since you have said a single damned word to me. You said you'd call. You didn't. You never said anything."

"It was for the best, Tom. You know that as well as I."

"It was maddening. It was frustrating. It was confusing as hell." He had to fight past the tightness of his jaw. " _That's_ what I know."

"So, you're mad at me?" Her eyes flew wide, incredulity ripe on her face. "That's why you're running down to the homestead, huh?"

He groaned, shaking his head, glaring at the fire sprinkler in the ceiling of the hallway. "If you'd just let me speak - "

"You haven't answered any of my questions."

"You haven't given me the opportunity!" His voice had risen to a near-yell.

Sasha pressed her lips together, her brows furrowing. After a fraught moment, she nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry for not calling you. It was awkward. I didn't know what to say."

He took another step towards her, until he was standing directly in the door frame. From this vantage point, he could see a door open in the hallway adjacent to his own, an inquisitive face peering out towards him and Sasha. Faking a smile, Tom threw the neighbor a little wave, then stepped aside and motioned for Sasha to enter. She slid past him without even disturbing his air.

She'd never been in his apartment. After he'd shut the door, he turned to see her giving the place a once-over, her expression an interesting mix of fascination and agitation. She took her time unwinding the rest of the scarf, folding it into a neat pile and laying it on a clear space on the kitchen counter. Her fingers worked at the first few buttons of her coat as she turned to face him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come here and give the neighbors a reason to gossip. I'm just worried about you. That maybe this has something to do with - " Faltering, she gave up on the buttons and dropped her hands to her sides.

Tom provided the words that she seemed unable to say. "With us?"

"Not that there's an 'us', per se, but yeah."

Tom moved a little closer, hooking his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans. "You can be assured that my leaving Newport has nothing to do with you."

A wrinkle formed just above her nose as she frowned at him. "Then why?"

"It has to do with me. My family." He'd only said the words a few times, so far, and still wasn't used to the way they felt in his mouth. Like sandpaper, or gravel. "I'm going home because my mother is dying."

She immediately relaxed, her expression morphing from anger to understanding. Calmly, she pulled the cap off her head and tousled her hair with her fingertips. "How long does she have?"

"A week. Maybe more." He should have known that she wouldn't show any kind of pity for him. She knew him too well. Nevertheless, it was a relief to able to dispense with the condolences. "We're hoping for more."

"How likely is it that you'll get it?"

Tom offered a tiny shake of his head. "Not very."

"That really, really sucks."

He should have known that she'd get it. That she, of all the people on base - hell, of all the people in Newport - would understand. Tom didn't know if it was just her innate ability to read people, or her uncanny knowledge of _him_ that allowed her to react exactly has he'd needed her to. But the hows weren't as consequential as the who, in this case. Through the past weeks, through his mad dash to complete the thesis and arrange his affairs at the College, through his growing concern for his mother, his frustration at not being able to be there for his sister and his father, through the long nights of worry and the long days of work - if he were to be completely honest with himself, he had to admit that the only person that he'd wanted to confide in had been Sasha. Hers had been the only kindness that he'd craved.

Only, it hadn't been there. Nothing had been there. Nothing but the sickeningly-sweet pity and condolence of people who didn't understand how a man like Tom Chandler grieved.

She knew him. Knew him to the deepest parts of his soul. It was as if they'd been a single being at one time, torn apart by that mythic God, and held apart by the commissions they'd both sworn oaths to uphold. He'd missed her. He'd missed her like he would have missed breathing, or food, or blood flowing through his veins. But now here she was, and he felt like he was finally allowed to be honest about it all. As if he was allowed to be real for the first time in weeks.

Nodding a little, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. "Yeah. It really, really does."

She stowed the cap in her coat pocket, each action deliberate and controlled. When she looked up at him, her blue eyes were clear and profoundly steady. "What do you need?"


	17. Beautiful, Maddening Complication

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Beautiful, Maddening Complication**

 _I started publishing this story on October 5, 2016. On a whim, I wrote Tom's sister Mindi as a Type One Diabetic. I did some research, familiarizing myself with the disease before writing the chapter—I do research for every detail that I add like that. It's part of my process._

 _Exactly a year and two months later, on December 5, 2017 my youngest child—my six year old daughter—was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes. She spent four days in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit coming out of Diabetic Ketoacidosis, a condition which occurs due to prolonged high blood sugars. My familiarity with the disease, along with an experienced pediatrician and a few miracles along the way, allowed my little girl to be diagnosed earlier than most kids are, before she suffered long term damage to her organs or brain. It's been a crazy, hectic, maddening time since, trying to learn everything I can about how to keep my baby healthy. But she's a survivor—strong, determined, and brave. She's amazing._

 _ **Know the Signs:**_

 _ **Excessive thirst, excessive urination, lethargy, excessive hunger, fruity or sweet smelling breath, unusual behavior, labored breathing, blurred vision, nausea, vomiting, otherwise unexplained weight loss.**_

 _If you or someone you love is experiencing any or all of these symptoms, please see a doctor immediately. Demand a simple finger-prick blood test. It could save a life._

-O-O-O-O-O-O-

"So?"

Tom smiled, his breath misty in the light of the street lamp overhead. Sliding his hands deep into his pockets, he resisted the urge to glance at her. Somehow, he knew that her expression radiated triumph.

"It was good."

Snorting indelicately, Sasha kicked at a pebble that had made its way onto the sidewalk. "Good? Come on, Tom. You can do better than that."

"It was good. What else is there to say about it?"

"That was the best burger you've ever had. Admit it."

Tom's grin widened. "It was a good burger. And the fries were amazing. You were right about that, too."

"I really hate to say 'I told you so', but—" Trailing off, Sasha tilted her head back to look up at the night sky. "Well, you know."

"Yes. You did, indeed, tell me so."

 _And she had. She'd insisted on feeding him—something Tom had balked at until he'd realized just how hungry he actually was. Sasha had led the way, hauling him out of his apartment building and guiding him as he'd driven through the deserted streets until they'd arrived at a restaurant at the edge of town. Not a tourist trap—but an obviously well-loved local teen hangout. They'd been the oldest people in the joint, with the exception of the proprietor and a few members of the staff. Sasha had ordered for him, and then found them a booth near the back of the place. The tall, padded benches had provided some privacy from the lively clamor around them. Even so, Sasha, being Sasha, had known not to chatter. Instead, she'd simply sat back and allowed him his space._

 _She'd simply allowed him to_ be _. He couldn't explain it in any other way. She'd intervened for him with the wait staff, keeping his drink full and the ketchup flowing. She'd even paid for the meal—with cash that he'd thrust at her. Somehow, she'd known that his meager ability to accept charity wouldn't have extended far enough to let her pay._

" _Ready?" She'd said when his plate was finally empty._

 _And, at his nod, they'd made their way through the place, out the door, and back to his truck. In the darkness of the cab, she'd studied him out of the corner of her eye before asking, "Cancer?"_

 _Tom hadn't looked at her, aiming his answer towards the windshield in front of him. "Yeah. We've only known since Christmas."_

" _Wow." She'd said this to the window at her right. "Must be an aggressive one?"_

" _Very. And she's chosen not to pursue treatment."_

 _For a while, they'd simply shared the silence, processing the conversation and its implications._

" _How's your dad?"_

 _Tom had grimaced a little, slowing at an intersection and signaling a left-hand turn. "Scared. Stubborn. He doesn't talk about it much, but I can tell he's scared."_

" _Are you planning on coming back?"_

 _The vehicle had lurched as he'd gunned it up the short rise into the parking lot of his apartment complex. Angling his truck into the parking spot he'd long-since claimed as his own, Tom had shifted into 'park' and turned the engine off. The keys had rasped as he'd withdrawn them from the ignition—a harsh, annoying sound. "I am. Graduation, maybe. If—or when—"_

 _But he couldn't have finished that sentence if he'd wanted to. Instead, she just seemed to know what he'd wanted to say, acknowledging him with a curt nod. Their doors had opened in unison, and she'd made her way around to to the driver's side, stopping around a yard away from him. She'd looked up at him with a bland sort of smile, brows raised, and said, "So?"_

And they were back to talking about the inconsequential.

Sasha was holding back a little, standing near him, but not too near, careful not to crowd him. Her hands were deep inside the pockets of her coat. They didn't even emerge when she shrugged a little. "We both know that I've always been the smart one in this relationship."

"Ah. Well then, I'll make sure to obey you from now on."

"You do that." She scuffed at the pavement with her toe again. "But until that opportunity presents itself, you'd probably better just head on up to get some sleep. You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?"

Nodding, Tom glanced at her face. Her expression was carefully nondescript. "Yeah."

"First thing?"

"Probably. Depends on when I can get the boxes loaded up. Key to the landlord. That sort of thing."

"Need any help?"

"No." Tom shook his head. "But thank you."

"You sure? I can get Lugo and the other guys over here early. There's no need for you to do all of this yourself."

"I'm fine, Sasha."

Finally, she tilted her chin upwards and met his gaze. "I just wish I could do more."

Damn, but she was beautiful. Beautiful and familiar and consuming. Even with her eyebrows furled close, and that worried little wrinkle deep above the bridge of her nose. Even with the skepticism mixing with the concern in her sharp-blue eyes. Even with the set of her jaw thinning the line of her mouth. Unable to stop himself, Tom bent and pressed his lips against the cold smoothness of her cheek. And if he lingered just a bit, breathing in her essence for a moment longer than was friendly—well—he wasn't going to beat himself up over it. Straightening, he took a necessary step backwards. "You've done enough, Sasha. I truly appreciate it."

Her head bobbled a little side-to-side—frustration, maybe, or exasperation at his implacability. "C'mon, Tom."

She'd parked her car directly behind his truck, on the other side of the narrow apartment complex lot. Tom indicated it with a jerk of his chin. "Go on home, Sasha. Thank you again."

"You'll be okay?"

Tom rolled his eyes in response, motioning towards her car again with a dismissive wave of his hand. His keys jangled at the movement. "Go on. I'll text you when I get there."

Sasha fiddled around in her pocket for second, pulling out her own car keys. With a final, meaningful look, she turned on her heel and made her way across the lot towards her car. It didn't take long for the engine to rev and the lights to glow in the dark murkiness of the night. Gravel crackled under the tires as she reversed and then angled her way towards the street. Tom watched until the Mercedes turned onto the main road, and then was gone.

It was cold. Frigid, really. The kind of humid cold that seeped through one's clothes and deep into one's bones. Or maybe that was just that feeling again, coming to wash over him in waves. The one where he was pretty sure that he was, indeed, alone in the world. And he, colossal idiot that he was, had just sent away the only person who had offered to hang around.

But what would have been the point? He was packed. He was ready to go. He had one foot already far, far away from the Academy and Newport, and the other aching to join it. The single thing he didn't need was a complication. And Sasha Tierney was a gigantic, beautiful, fascinating, tempestuous complication.

Muttering a curse, Tom turned and made his way up the outside staircase to his apartment. He'd turned off the lights in the kitchen and living room as he and Sasha had left, but forgotten the lamps in the bedroom. Their illumination was just enough to cast a weird, distorted maze of shadows around the stacks and piles of boxes—like the landscape of some eerie planet.

Tom tossed his keys on top of one of the boxes and unfastened his coat, shrugging it off his shoulders even as he toed out of his loafers. Shucking off his sweater, he let it drop to the floor and tugged his t-shirt free of his waistband. He needed to shower and head to bed. The earlier he was up and out the door, the better. As he headed towards the bathroom, he unbuckled his belt and freed the top button of his jeans.

He'd just flipped on the bathroom light when he felt a buzzing on his thigh. He'd muted his phone earlier in the day, and hadn't gotten around to turning the sound back on again. Digging the device out of his pocket, Tom flipped it open and lifted it to his ear.

"Tommy?"

"Hey, Pipsqueak."

"I know it's late. I'm sorry." Mindi's voice was quiet—not quite a whisper, but almost.

"Is it?" Tom tilted his wrist to look at his watch. Twenty minutes after midnight. "No worries. What do you need?"

A long silence stretched between them for a moment, and then Mindi cleared her throat and sighed. "It hasn't been a good day."

"Mom?"

"And Dad. He's being difficult."

"Isn't that kind of his thing?"

"Not like this, Tom." She'd shifted in whatever chair she was sitting.

Tom could hear the fabric of her clothing rubbing against the upholstery. He could imagine her in her favorite position—legs tucked up underneath her, body leaning sideways against the armrest. She was settling in for a good, long talk. "How's Chris handling all of that?"

"He's running interference. We all thought that Rob and Sophia would be here today, but they didn't catch their flight. Mom was upset and sad, Dad was being reactive to that, and Silvie and Jenny were getting on his nerves. They're just little kids, and they don't know really what's going on, but they were playing too loud for Dad, and he snapped at them. Chris got all protective and there were some words said." There was more, but Mindi merely let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

"It's stressful."

"Totally." Mindi's voice cracked a little. "And the stress is wreaking havoc on my blood sugars. I've been high all day, until the whole thing with Chris and Dad, and then I just plummeted down to nothing. I went all noodley, and I couldn't even step in to mediate between Chris and Dad because the low just wiped me out."

"You've always had more problems with lows than highs. Chocolate milk?"

"A whole cup. And a couple of Oreos." Mindi sighed again. "But it still makes me useless."

"I'm sorry that I'm not already there, Mindi."

"Don't be. I just needed to vent."

"I'll be there. Tomorrow night. Sunday morning at the latest." Tom padded towards the kitchen, dragging the fridge door open. He wasn't sure why—all there was in there was a bedraggled box of baking soda and a few bottles of water. He swung the door closed again. "I'll get down there as soon as possible."

She didn't respond immediately, and Tom closed his eyes against the frustration that welled up inside him. He should have been there already—thesis be damned. Grades and students and Navy be damned. But Tom and Mindi both knew that their mother wouldn't have been able to let it go. Tom finishing what he'd started was part of the reason why she had been hanging on.

"Tommy?"

"Yeah, Pipsqueak?"

"We're having a boy."

"A boy, huh?"

"I don't know what to do with boys."

"You'll figure it out." She smiled against the phone. How he knew that, Tom had no idea. He just knew. "You're Supermom. Hell, you're SuperTeacher. I have great faith in your abilities."

"I dealt well enough with you, I guess."

"See? You'll be fine." Tom turned, leaning back against the fridge. "Although you kind of screwed Robert up, so maybe we shouldn't inflate our hopes to high."

She made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. "Shut up, Loser."

Tom looked down. Through the darkness, he could just make out his stockinged feet on the cheap tile of the kitchen floor. Standing upright, he planted his heel on the toe of the other foot, peeled his foot out of the sock, and then repeated the action with the opposite foot. "It's late, Min. Let me go to bed, and I'll see you tomorrow. Sunday at the latest."

"I hate being needy."

"I hate this entire situation."

"Ditto." She breathed deeply three times before addressing him again. "Hey, Loser?"

"Yeah, Min?"

"I love you." Her voice cracked slightly. "You know that, right?"

"I do." The tile was cold against his feet, but the ache in his heart was even colder. "I love you too, Mindi."

The phone flipped closed with a surprisingly loud 'snick', and Tom reached out to put it on the counter. Kicking his socks towards where he'd already discarded his jacket and sweater, Tom headed back towards the bathroom, but another noise stopped him. Not his phone—but something else entirely.

Angling his ear towards the door, he listened intently, and the noise came again. Not a knock—more of a 'tap'. Hesitant, and light. And somehow, he knew—again—exactly who he'd find on the other side. It only took three steps to make it to the door, a moment more to turn the knob and swing it open.

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think them. "Deja vu?"

Sasha stood on the other side, coatless and shivering. To her credit, her expression was a perfect amalgam of embarrassment and determination. "I'm sorry—I got halfway home and realized that I'd forgotten my scarf here earlier. I figured that you didn't want to have to take it with you to Georgia, and I didn't want you to just leave it here for the landlord, since Freja made it for me two years ago for Christmas."

"The nanny."

"My friend. We exchange gifts." Sasha chewed a little on her lip, rubbing her hands up and down her arms in an effort to stay warm. She'd stretched the arms of her sweater down over her hands, the bottoms of the sleeves acting as mittens in the absence of the gloves she'd worn earlier. Looking upwards at Tom from beneath her lashes, Sasha offered a half-shrug. "She made it for me, so—it's special."

"Obviously, you wouldn't want it lost." Tom stepped backwards, drawing the door open fully—a move that Sasha seemed to take as an invitation.

She sidled past him, avoiding the pile of laundry next to the kitchenette as she rounded a box in order to reach the scarf, which was exactly where she'd left it—on the breakfast bar. "Like I said—I'm sorry about bugging you again." She bundled the scarf up in her hands, pivoting to look at him. "I came up and listened at your door, thinking that surely you were already asleep, but then I heard your voice and thought that you were talking to someone."

Tom allowed the door to swing closed behind him. It was cold out, and he was even less-dressed than his again-guest. "My sister. She called."

"Ah." Sasha made a hasty scan of the apartment—for no other reason than to not look at Tom. "I knocked a few times, but you obviously didn't hear me."

"You should have knocked harder."

"Your neighbors. The nosy one down there was already watching me through her window. I didn't want more of an audience."

"An audience to what? You're here for your scarf, not some illicit weapons deal, right?"

Fighting back a smile, Sasha nodded, moving gracefully around the box again, aiming back towards where Tom stood near the front door. "Well, anyway, thank you. I'll get out of your hair now. Go to bed. No offense, but you look exhausted."

"And you look cold." He should just let her go. Should usher her out and deadbolt the door against her. But this was _her_ , and Tom had never been level-headed when it came to Sasha Tierney. "What happened to your coat?"

A slight pinkness crept into her cheeks. "Well, my car has heated seats."

"Fancy."

"Except that the switch broke last week, so I can't turn them off. I haven't had time to get it fixed."

He lifted a brow. "Not so fancy."

The corner of her mouth twitched a little. "And I hate being hot, so when I turn on the heated seats and the car's other heater, I take my coat off so that I don't get overly warm."

"And you just thought that you'd jump out, get the scarf, and jump back into your nice cozy car."

"Exactly." Sasha fiddled a little with the knitted concoction in her hands. "But it took longer to get your attention than it should have. And—well—your neighbors and all. . ."

What was different? Earlier, it had been simple to keep his distance. Now—not so much. Was it her? Or him? Or was it the situation? He'd found it remarkably easy to sublimate his feelings for her earlier, when all that was offered had been food and some mindless conversation. But now—now things had changed.

Her armor was down.

So was his. How many times had he tried to build walls, only to have them crumble at the most inopportune moment?

And those eyes of hers—so brilliant even in the dark—intuitive and intelligent. She was thinking about it, too. Remembering what had been between them, before they'd discovered definitively that nothing _could_ be between them. She was studying him as unobtrusively as possible, her gaze flickering from his mussed hair, to the thin t-shirt he wore, to his lips, to his bare toes, leaving a trail of heat in her wake.

He knew he shouldn't. Knew he had no business reaching for it, but the scarf was in his hands before he could order himself not to make a move. Silently, he unfurled the thing. It was long—fabricated out of some fine kind of yarn that didn't seem like it would offer even a modicum of warmth. Without a word, he let it drape across his hands. It caught the bits of light filtering in from behind him, shimmering like an elegant burgundy wine spilling down towards the floor. "It's beautiful."

"It's cashmere. There's a natural sheen to the fibers." Sasha was staring at his hands, at where the softness of the wool touched the roughened texture of Tom's palms and fingers. "It's warmer than it looks."

Inane. Stupid, lame conversation. To be talking about wool when he should be showing her out the door. Tom tightened his jaw, trying to steel himself against the want flooding through his being. He was tired—exhausted, really—emotionally, physically, and spiritually drained. The very last thing in the world that he needed was to be wishing for this disaster to happen, yet here he was.

Wishing.

"Tom?" Whispered, his name fell across her lips like a prayer.

He took a half-step towards her, raising his hands enough that he could situate the scarf around her neck. Without a sound, he let it fall to her shoulders, then threaded his fingers between the softness of her hair and the cool silk of the skin at her nape. Slowly, stupidly, he gathered the slick mass of her hair from beneath the weight of the scarf, freeing it to tumble down her back. His thumbs traced the elegant lines of her jaw, his fingertips lingering on her throat before following the incredible softness of the knit down her shoulders.

She stood motionless, her breathing unnaturally steady and deep, her lips parted slightly. She'd focused on his sternum, it seemed, refusing steadfastly to meet his eye, and yet her hands came up to catch his, pressing his palms against her collarbones.

The pads of her fingers meandered along the strong lines of his knuckles, tickling the fine hairs on his skin, smoothing across the veins and sinews on the backs of his hands. He might have imagined the pulse beating rapidly in her fingertips, had he not been able to see the telltale flutters in the hollow of her throat. She was wishing, too. Just as affected by the moment as he was.

"You should go." Damn, what it cost him to say those words. And then, unbidden, truth followed, softer, more achingly. "But I don't want you to."

"I _should_ go." Sasha's eyes rose to meet his. "But I don't want to."

"Damnit, Sasha." Her hands tightened atop his own, sending waves of sensation up his arms and throughout his body to settle near the base of his spine. " _Damn it_."

"I've missed you." She smiled, a little sadly, as he lifted her fingers to tease at the stubble on his chin, moving upwards to trace the sharp line of his bottom lip. "Way more than I should have."

Cursing his own weakness, Tom scrunched the cashmere in his fists, tugging gently on the scarf until Sasha's body was nearly flush with his own. She was strong, and sure, her form radiating that confidence that he'd always found so irresistible. And suddenly he needed more—needed that strength against him—an infusion of sorts, of heat, and power, and energy.

His hands shifted, brushing sideways towards her arms and then downward, skimming her sides to settle on the delicious swell of her hips. He bent slightly, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes drifting closed even as his senses sang at her nearness. "Me too. I—Sasha—"

But she stopped him, angling upwards to offer her mouth to him. And heaven help him if he didn't capitulate, if his body didn't respond immediately to the invitation. He made up the last few millimeters, brushing her lips gently at first, hesitantly questioning—until he finally gave in completely and encircled her with his arms to gather her body fully against his own. She gasped, and Tom took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, to capture her completely.

It was like coming home—comfortable and sweet—to a place where he belonged. Her touch grounded him even as it drove him further into the maelstrom, sending ripples of sheer joy through his entire being. Her hands were warm as they cupped his jaw, sure and bold as they slipped downward to trace his shoulders, his chest, his arms, before making their way upward around the back of his neck to ruffle the short hair above his collar. She must have felt him shiver, because she smiled against his mouth and then did it again. Grinning a bit in return, Tom tightened his hold, sending his own hands exploring down the delicate curve of her backside—just to feel her shiver in return. He was far from disappointed—her own tremor brought her so close that he wasn't sure he could tell which heartbeat or breath was his own.

He pulled away briefly—just long enough to search her features—before lifting her off her feet to kiss her again. Longer—more penetrating—stronger. Months ago, in her hotel room—the last time it had been like this—he'd still been in physical therapy. Tonight, there were no such limitations. Tom took a step towards the kitchenette, hefting her up against the odd little half-wall there. He was more than satisfied when she used the opportunity to lever upwards and curl her legs greedily around his waist.

Pressing a kiss to the side of her neck, Tom used the new position to growl a question into her ear. "Are you sure?"

"Less talking, Tom." Sasha looked down at him from her new perch. Her weight was perfect against him, intensely welcome. She wriggled a little, experimentally, or maybe just for fun. The result was the same—more heat rising, blood rushing, desire flaming. Her eager hands had already made their way under his t-shirt, re-learning the shape of his body, the expanse of his ribs, the play of his muscles beneath his skin. Tightening her legs around him, she balanced herself against the wall and made short work of tugging the shirt up and over his head and arms. With a coy grin, she dropped it unerringly on top of the rest of the clothing he'd shucked off earlier before wrapping her arms around his neck again and pressing her lips—her tongue—against the pulse beating in his throat. Her breath was hot and quick as she urged him onward. " _Far_ less talking. And much, much more of this other stuff."


	18. Darkness After Dawn

**Far Edge of Anywhere**

 **Darkness after Dawn**

He hadn't really been able to sleep anyway. As soon as the light in his bedroom had gone all pink in the dawn, Tom had slid from beneath the tangle of sheets and blankets, dressed, and gotten to work. It had taken six trips down the rickety stairs for him to nearly fill up the bed of the pick-up, one more to make complete use of the space at the back of the cab. There was still one box in the kitchen that needed to be put in the bed, and a duffle bag he'd left empty specifically for the incidentals that he'd meant to pack this morning. Other than that, he was ready to go. For the first time in weeks, the thought sent a twinge through him.

Climbing his stairs for the umpteenth time, Tom slipped through his door, closing it quietly behind him.

"You've been busy."

She was standing at the head of the hall, near the bathroom. She'd wrapped herself in the quilt from his bed, but a tantalizing glimpse of bare shoulder teased him from beneath the tumble of her hair. Forcing himself to look away, he tried to ignore how the mere thought of that shoulder, of that skin, could make his mouth go dry.

Bending down, Tom snagged the last of the boxes from the floor next to the fridge—cleaning supplies, he thought. He hadn't really labeled the boxes, just thrown stuff in and then taped them up. It was too light to be canned goods, so he'd be safe stowing it in the spot he had left. "Just trying to make up some time. I was planning to have left an hour ago."

"Until I showed up on your doorstep."

Tom slid the box onto the countertop next to his coat and the sweater he'd been wearing the night before. Other than stripping the bed of its sheets and collecting the toiletries from the bathroom, he was pretty much ready to leave.

Except for Sasha.

There were things that needed to be said.

Tom glanced at her, amazed at how she could look so refreshed after so little sleep. They'd stolen not hours, but moments of rest during the night. Never in his adult life had he craved intimacy like he had during the past night. His need had felt insatiable, raw, and unrelenting—as if his very existence depended on exploring each and every inch of this woman—eliciting every possible sigh, every gasp, every moan—exposing and then exploiting every single nerve. And in between, they'd talked about anything and nothing: Tom's family, Sasha's intriguing past, and everything in between. For the first time since Kosovo, Tom had told someone else about the chopper, and the crash, his injuries, and the long, painful road to recovery.

He'd expected something by way of reaction. Not pity—he knew her too well to expect that—but something other than a gentle snort and a wry smirk.

" _Well, that explains things." She'd been lying on her side, her head balanced on an upturned hand._

" _That explains what?"_

" _How you can tolerate Alexeev so handily." Those too-intelligent eyes had turned mischievous. Stifling a yawn, she'd grinned fully, then. "You've been through Hell and lived to tell about it. So, you were already prepared to work with the Devil."_

 _He'd reached across the divide and pulled her, giggling, across his body. It hadn't taken him long to elicit completely different noises from her._

Sasha had slipped into a profound sleep around five-thirty, draped half-way across Tom's body. And Tom had tried—really tried—to follow her into slumber, but his mind had been a riot of thoughts and concerns that had refused to behave themselves.

Not the least of which was the fact that he technically wouldn't be released from his commission for another six days. And he'd slept— _again_ —with someone within his direct chain of command last night.

But if he had to be honest with himself, he'd been more consumed with the fact that this might be the _last_ time. That, once he left Newport, there was no guarantee that he'd ever see her again. And frankly—that was even more unacceptable to Tom than making things right, taking his lumps, and moving on with his life.

As long as she'd be there at his side.

"I'm glad you showed up."

Ducking her chin, Sasha feigned interest in the tile at her feet. "And are you glad I stayed?"

"Yes." He tilted his head to one side. "Although it complicated things."

She shifted the blanket around her, but the movement only served to cause the uppermost edge to drape more provocatively down her shoulder. Either she didn't notice, or she didn't care. Probably the latter, if the cat-eats-canary smile curving across her lips was any indication. "But it was also fun."

Tom growled a little in the back of his throat, raising a hand to scratch absently at the stubble on his throat. "So, that's what we're calling this."

"That's what _I'm_ calling it." A lock of hair had fallen over her left eye, and she peered at him from around the dark curl. "You seem to like bigger words than I do."

"I'm just saying that 'fun' doesn't quite encapsulate the entire experience."

"Hmm. So, to your way of thinking, 'complicated' is a better descriptor than 'fun'?"

"Not really." Tom's brows rose as he met her gaze. "But it's more accurate, isn't it?"

"Sure." Sasha finally lifted a hand and shoved the stray curl behind her ear. "If you're on the outside. Since we're insiders, we can assign whichever words we want. For example, I could also use 'illegal', 'against regulations', and 'fraternization'."

"I think I'd rather go with 'complicated'."

"It's a better word than 'stupid', I suppose."

"But 'complicated' is certainly preferable to 'courts-martial'."

Sasha had the grace to pale a little at that. "Truthfully, how likely is that? You're heading down to Georgia indefinitely. Nobody will ever know what happened between us, and we'll never tell, right?"

"C'mon, Sasha." Shifting, Tom leaned his forearm on the box he'd placed on the counter a few moments before. "Can you guarantee that? We aren't necessarily the only ones who know."

"That's true." She pulled the blanket more tightly around her body. "But we can trust Lugo, and I'm certainly not going to tell anyone else. Are you?"

"No." He looked downward, at his hands, rather than at her. "Of course not."

"Because that would be career suicide, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure." He hazarded a look at her and then pretended to become enthralled with the tape on the top of his box. "Perhaps."

"Which is why we aren't going to say anything."

"Right." He nodded—a vague, small motion when all was said and done.

Sasha straightened, taking a deliberate step forward. "Tom? What's going on in that handsome, square head of yours?"

He took a bracing sort of breath before looking at her again. He'd thought about nothing else all night—his mind racing through strategies and probable outcomes. The weight of her body at his side had only spurred him on. He'd never in his adult life felt so satisfied, or a situation felt so right to him, as having her in his bed, and having her in his life. When he'd first arrived in Newport, he'd felt adrift—as if he had no definite direction. He'd been wandering through existence simply taking things as they came. Until— _her_.

Last night, his mind had cleared. Somehow, sometime in and around the intensity of being with Sasha, he'd figured out which tack to take. He'd found his course. "I'm thinking that we should try to make this work."

She grinned—really more of a leer than anything else. Tossing her head towards the bedroom, Sasha laughed a little before speaking. "I thought that's what we'd been doing all night. Making _this_ work."

"Not— _that_. Not just sex." Tom stepped around the little half-wall of the kitchenette, coming to a stop several feet from Sasha. "I'm talking about this relationship. I'm thinking that we should try to make a go of it."

"A go?" The smirk fled from Sasha's face. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his expression. "As in—make things official?"

"Yeah. Kind of." Lamely, Tom offered the beginnings of a shrug. He wasn't sure what kind of response his suggestion would receive, but it certainly wasn't this. "I mean, if that's what you want."

"And how, exactly, is that supposed to happen?" Those dark brows flew upwards. "I mean—since we're still within the same chain of command, and all. Since everything that we've been doing for the past four?—five? months has been strictly prohibited by every oath we've ever taken, and every rule we've ever had drummed into us."

"And yet, here we still are. Standing in my dump of an apartment. You wrapped in my blanket after the night we just shared. How many times did we break those regs? Last night alone, I mean. I lost count after that bit with your scarf and the headboard."

All color fled Sasha's face. Whirling, she strode into the bedroom, the blanket flaring out behind her like the wake of a destroyer.

Tom followed her, hesitating at the threshold. "Sasha. Wait."

"For what?" She'd tossed the blanket on the bed, and was in the process of wriggling into the panties he'd tossed to the floor the night before. She didn't bother with her bra, simply dragging her sweater over her head and hurriedly stepping into her jeans. Finger-combing her hair behind her ears, she turned to face him. "For _what_ , Tom? For you to sabotage both of our careers by going public with this?"

"Not sabotage." Tom swallowed, fighting for control. "Of course, I'd never want that. We've both worked too hard for that."

"Then what the hell are you talking about?"

"Despite our best efforts, Sasha, I don't think that we were as discreet as we should have been." Tom gauged her reaction before continuing. "There's always the chance that someone could make an accusation."

"Who—you mean Alexeev?"

"Among others. He knew that I was partial to you. He made inferences."

Sasha snorted, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. "Well, he's a dick, so—"

"He's your superior officer. And mine."

"And you think that he's going to take these suspicions to Sheffield?"

"I don't know anything for certain, Sasha." Taking a tentative step forward, Tom made a vague gesture towards the rumpled bed. "Just that we—this—what we've done—none of this—is safe from exposure. All it takes is one loose mouth, and people start suspecting things."

"You're leaving. What does it matter?"

"This stuff follows us."

"Stuff." The word practically exploded from her lips. "You mean rumors? Innuendo?"

"All the worse, since we can't even rebut them." Tom's jaw worked for a moment before he continued. "At least, not honestly."

"We've made some mistakes."

"My part in this was deliberate. No mistakes."

She sputtered a little, then made a strange sort of growl deep in the back of her throat. "We didn't set out to break regulations. Hell—I didn't even set out to form a relationship with you. As you recall, I told you in no uncertain terms that nothing could happen between us."

"So what—you tripped and fell into my bed?" He scoffed a little, brows flying upwards his hairline. "I tripped and fell into _you_?"

Rolling her eyes, Sasha laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. "Really? Crudity from Cary Grant. Not what I expected."

Tom turned 180-degrees away from her, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands as he fought for control. Sucking in a bracing sort of breath, he cautiously pivoted again. "I'm sorry. I'm just worried that if we don't come clean, this will all come back to bite us in the ass."

Frowning, Sasha crossed her arms across her body, turning slightly to balance her hip against the dresser. "Mistakes happen, Tom. They can be explained away."

"This isn't like one of your teenaged pranks, Sasha." Tom's eyes narrowed. "You can't just fix it with a slick excuse."

"Oh really?" Sasha cast him a placative kind of look. "You're distraught because of your family issues. You go to a bar. I happen to be there, and I see your distress. Knowing that you need a friend, we share a few beers. Too many—and, drunk, we end up in bed together. Nobody is going to prosecute that. At worst, we'd get a slap on the wrist."

"The Commander would see right through that. Especially after the way I defended you following the run-in with your parents."

She worried at the cheap carpet with her bare toe. "Just tell Sheffield that I was trying to offer you comfort and support, and it went too far."

"And you think that would hold up?"

Her sharp eyes pierced into his own. "It's true, isn't it?"

The air had changed in the room—the warmth that they'd shared the night before had given way to a profound, mean frigidity that settled between them like sheets of ice on the bay. Dangerous, unstable, and unpredictable—and there was no way in hell to know what was lurking beneath.

"So, you're saying that _that_ \- " Tom's voice was carefully bland as he pointed towards the tangled mess of the bed. "That was nothing but comfort sex? You pitied me, so you screwed me?"

Her jaw worked two—three times before she responded. When she spoke, she didn't look in his direction. "It's as likely a story as anything else we could tell."

"We could tell the truth. How we met. How we established a relationship before we knew that we were in the same chain of command. How circumstances led us to this point."

She sputtered a little, then let out a low, coarse laugh. "How good we were in bed?"

Tom's scoff drew her gaze to his.

"I mean—if you're going to tell them the story, you may as well tell them the whole story." Her eyes widened in mock sincerity. "Unredacted. How many times. How many positions. How many org—"

His interruption was punctuated by a sharp exhale. "Now who's being crude?"

"You're right." Pushing away from the dresser, she turned towards him. "But I'm _not_ the one being stupid."

Tom took two steps forward, his movements tense and brittle. "If we take this to Sheffield now, we could take our lumps and move on. There'd be a chance for us in the future."

"And what do you think they'll do, Tom?" She moved closer, her arms braced tightly around her body. "Who do you think they'll demote? Which one of us would end up protecting fishing trawlers in Skagway while the other gets his own command?"

Stifling a groan, he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Sasha - "

"Who?" Her voice had risen—higher, more desperate. "Who? The hotshot hero? Or the lowly recruit? The Golden Boy who's on the fast track to Admiral? Or the whore who was sleeping her way to the top?"

"Damn it, Sasha." He tore his eyes from hers, looking at something—anything—else to keep from seeing the frank accusation in her face. "It wouldn't be like that."

"And how _would_ it be?" Sasha threw her hands out—pleading for an answer, or perhaps just expressing exasperation. "Enlighten me."

"We might be sanctioned. Face some disciplinary action. But it would enable us to come clean. Once it was out in the open, we could fix things so that we could be together."

For a moment, she simply stared at him, her mouth agape. Shaking herself a little, she seemed to process what he was saying. "What exactly are you imagining, Tom?

"You could serve your time and then get out." He glared down at the threadbare carpet at her feet. "You could find a job in the private sector—make your father happy by joining the family business. We could get married. Have a family."

Her tone shifted directly to mockery. "Ooh. A desk job. How thrilling! Lucky me!"

"Or whatever else that you want to do. You've got a more varied skill set than I do."

"And how would _that_ work, Tom? How would I do with this phantom civilian job?" Sarcastic speculation colored her expression. "Or maybe I could just quit altogether and play the role of 'wifey'. You'd go to sea for months on end, and I'd be sitting at home—what—barefoot and pregnant? You'll come home on leave and knock me up, and I'll conference call you in via the ship's phone once the little bugger's born. That's a plan!"

"Sasha - that's not what I meant."

"Then what exactly did you mean?"

He had no more words to say that wouldn't make things worse, so he simply stood there, in stupid silence, looking anywhere but at her. The walls, the cracked and water-stained ceiling, the cheap carpeting. The bed.

His eyes drifted closed, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to unclench his jaw. He was tense everywhere—muscles, brain, heart. Even his hands had tightened into frustrated fists, his toes curled in his shoes, his gut wrenching into wicked knots.

Her voice came to him through his self-imposed darkness, quieter, and more controlled. "That's what I thought you meant."

Tom pressed his eyes more firmly shut, his chin dropping to his chest. _Damn, damn, damn. Damn it all straight to hell._ He concentrated on his breathing, on forcing his body away from the fight that called to it. Tried to ignore that he could hear her moving around the bedroom—and then walking to where he stood at the doorway.

For whatever reason, he couldn't watch her leave. Couldn't watch as she chose something—anything—other than him and what they could share together—what they could become.

She neared, and he could smell her, could feel her warmth at his side as she paused, could feel the cool softness of her skin as she touched his hand. "I don't regret any of it, Tom. You will, forever, be part of me."

Her words were calm, and quiet, and profoundly sad, somehow. Enough so that Tom turned his head towards her, cracking a glance in her direction. When he spoke, the words tasted like hot gravel in his mouth. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

The side of her mouth quirked a little, a bit of sparkle returning to her eyes. "Well, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, right?"

Tom couldn't stop the smile that curved his lips. He should have expected that from her, something random and wonderful.

And then she reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I'm going to miss you, Tom. More than I ever would have thought possible."

As if drawn by some inner magnet, Sasha leaned up and brushed her lips quickly against his own. Pulling immediately away, she allowed her hand to run down his arm, insinuating her fingers between his own, pressing her palm against his own one last time before wriggling free and letting go for good. Without looking at him again, she moved through the doorway past him and down the short hall towards the front door. Within seconds, Tom heard it 'click' closed behind her.

She was gone.


End file.
